


Let Freedom Ring

by apolesen



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, Ableism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Civil Rights Movement, Disability, F/F, F/M, Historical, Homophobia, Jewish Identity, M/M, Plotty, Psychoanalysis, Transgender, Transphobia, Xavier Institute, this is not your parents' happily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 135,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains spoilers for X-Men 2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: the Last Stand.

Mrs Marcy Stryker wished that there was something more she could do. There were no cushions left to straighten, no makeup left to apply, no coffee left to brew. Besides, it was too late to start fussing now. The guests were already here. She was insistent that they were _guests_ \- it seemed only right that they would be given that courtesy. As she lingered in the kitchen, she could hear them speaking in the living room. The customary anger in Bill’s voice was restrained but ever present. When speaking of _him_ , it never went away. Bracing herself, she took the tray and went to the living room.

Marcy had learned over the last few months to expect the worst when turning a corner, but the living room looked comfortingly mundane. Her husband sat on one side of the coffee table, facing the guests. She had assumed he would look angry, but he was surprisingly composed, and even managed to smile at her, which was not very common nowadays. Perhaps it was simply for show, to keep up appearances, but she settled for it being genuine.

‘My wife - Marcy,’ he explained to the guests when she put the tray down. She looked at them, surprised at how normal they looked. Somehow, she had expected red tentacles and fangs. ‘Marcy, this is Professor Xavier, and Mister Summers.’

‘A pleasure, Mrs Stryker,’ said one of the guests and extended a hand. He was a handsome man who, despite going prematurely grey, had retained boyishly blue eyes. The hand which pressed hers was soft and rather refined. It took her a moment to realise that the reason he was so precariously seated at the corner on the table was because he was in a wheelchair. Instantly, she felt sorry for the man, and wondered what had happened to him, or if he had always been like that. It was a pity, for such a young, handsome man. She remembered her husband’s annoyance every time he had mentioned the name Xavier before they decided to call the man, and she understood but did not share his dislike. Bill had little patience with intellectuals, and a crippled professor would not go down well with him. The man’s soft looks would not make him more likable; “effete” would be Bill’s word for it.

Nevertheless, he seemed to tolerate the man under the circumstances. It certainly seemed like he was the main guest. The other guest, a strong, blond man with a brooding look in his eye, looked like he was trying to sink into the armchair and disappear. Still, he shook her hand and accepted coffee before leaning back simply to listen. Perhaps, Marcy pondered, he was simply the driver. She wondered if the two men were like _that_ as well. She did not want to use Bill’s chosen word for it.

‘So, Professor,’ her husband said before she had finished pouring the coffee. ‘Tell us about this... institution of yours.’

The soft-handed cripple sipped his coffee and then looked at them both.

‘It’s not an institution, Colonel,’ he told them in a crisp English accent of a kind Marcy had never heard spoken in real life before. ‘It’s a school. A school for gifted youngsters - such as your son.’

‘“Gifted”?’ Marcy repeated, confused.

‘Why, yes,’ he said and looked her in the eye. Something about his friendliness unsettled her.

 

‘Our son isn’t... _gifted_ ,’ she said, failing not to choke on the last word. She felt her husband growing sterner. He leaned a little forward to assert himself.

‘Let me be frank with you, professor,’ he said gravely. ‘I believe in calling a spade a spade, and not in poncing about with euphemisms.’ Marcy wished she could plug her ears, but instead she wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, hoping that holding onto something would make the impact more bearable. ‘Our son is a freak. There’s no need to call it anything else.’

The professor watched him steadily, the pleasant smile on his lips arrested.

‘Is that what you tell your son he is?’ he asked levelly. Marcy wanted to shout out, _no, don’t provoke him_ , as she felt Bill stiffening even more. At the same time, she wondered how this man thought he had the right to imply anything about how they (he) chose to raise their child.

‘It’s true,’ Bill said through gritted teeth.

‘Well, I’d like to disagree,’ the professor said lightly. ‘Your son’s powers are simply a result of a mutation, and mutation is absolutely crucial to evolution...’

‘Evolution?’ Bill answered contemptuously. ‘Scientific bull.’

‘Well.’ The professor smiled, as if offering to drop the argument, and turned instead to Marcy. ‘Mrs Stryker, I assure you that your son is gifted.’

‘The things he can do...’ she said. ‘Awful.’

‘He makes us _see_ things!’ Bill nigh shouted, and it must have reached the upper floor, because as if on cue, Marcy saw the house around her ablaze. The next moment, everything was back normal. At least it had just been the fire; Jason had dreamed up several worse scenarios recently.

‘How old is Jason?’ the professor asked.

‘Twelve,’ Marcy answered. ‘He’ll be thirteen in December.’ As if this was an important clue, he nodded.

‘And this started...?’

‘Going on three months now,’ Bill interjected, annoyed at being left out. ‘Xavier, can you cure him?’

‘There is nothing to cure, Colonel Stryker,’ answered the professor calmly. ‘But I can help. I can teach Jason to control his powers.’

‘And then?’ he pressed. ‘Will he be normal?’

‘“Normal”?’ the professor repeated, sounding as perplexed as Marcy guessed she had when saying “gifted”. ‘I do not think there is truly any such thing. You must understand, your son has an extraordinary ability.’ His eyes roved from him to her and back. Marcy felt him searching for something - recognition or acceptance - but _he_ had not had visions of the hair-curler turning into a snake or the living-room turning into a mire of corpses. Xavier did not look away as he raised a hand and started rubbing his temple absentmindedly. Marcy thought it was cruel that a man in his condition should suffer from headaches on top of everything else, but where she had expected a wince of an approaching migraine attack, instead he smiled at her, as if they had a shared secret.

His hand dropped, and he straightened.

‘Could I meet your son, please?’ Bill caught Marcy’s eye, and she rose and headed for the stairs.

‘Jason!’ she called out. She saw something move behind the railings - as she had thought, he had been listening. When he appeared on the top of the stairs, she was glad to see that at least he was still dressed in the clothes she had given him to wear. He kept stroking the nape of his neck - she must make him stop that habit. And the way he was weighing on the balls of his feet made her nervous - it was not safe... He smiled at her, and then she watched how he tumbled down the stairs and landed at her feet, dead eyes staring at her.

She gasped and grabbed at the banister to support herself. Was it for real this time? Had he...? But even as she watched the dead body of her son, she felt him push past her, stepping out of her blurred vision.

****

Meeting another mutant with psychic abilities was always a novelty. When the boy entered the room, Charles moved to greet him.

‘Hello, Jason,’ he said and extended a hand. The boy stared at it, as if he had never had anyone attempt to shake his hand before. Charles decided to settle on another approach.

‘You’ll be lucky if you get a word out of him,’ Stryker said. ‘He stopped talking about when all this started.’ Charles looked at him briefly, stopping himself from asking why he had not taken him to see a doctor. Unfortunately, he needed to keep on the right side of this man - a deal was being struck. He turned back to Jason and settled on a different approach.

 _You can do some quite extraordinary things, can’t you?_ he thought, projecting the message into the boy’s head. Jason’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly the house around them disappeared. Around him stretched a wasteland under a grey sky. He felt the wheels of his chair sinking into the mud; when he looked down, he found himself staring down into a water-filled shell-hole. The limp body of a man was floating in it. Half his face was missing, shrapnel buried in his throat.

 _You know your history too, I see,_ Charles thought and concentrated, planting the suggestion to end the illusion. The stench of the battlefield disappeared, and he found himself back in the suburban living room, face to face with the illusion-spinning boy. _Do you do it consciously?_ The boy’s eyes flicked to the side, towards his father. _It’s alright. Just think it, and I will hear you._

 _I do it when I’m angry._

 _Just when you’re angry?_

 _Or hurt. Or sad. Or scared. When they think I won’t do it. And when I think I won’t do it._

Charles watched as the boy raised his hand and stroked the nape of his neck, as if something about the freshly cut hair disturbed him. His other hand was tugging at his sweater. His concentration still on Jason’s thoughts, he sensed the disgust the boy felt against his own appearance.

 _I can teach you to control it._ Startled by the suggestion, the boy met his eyes. Charles smiled.

‘Heterochromia,’ he said out loud.

‘What?’ Stryker, who had been watching their silent sojourn, snapped.

‘Heterochromia iridum - it’s the scientific name for the difference in colour of Jason’s eyes.’

‘Oh,’ Stryker said in sudden disgust. ‘ _That.’_

 _Don’t mind him,_ Charles projected to Jason, who was still watching him with one green, one blue eye. _It’s one of my favourite mutations._ That made the boy smile a little, but his face remained concerned despite it. Deciding to speak again, Charles said:

‘I run a school, for young people with special abilities, like yours. Your parents want to send you there. Would you like that?’

Jason looked away and started chewing his lip. Was it shyness, or autism? Charles wondered what had made the boy retreat into himself so much that his powers because the only means of interaction. His guess was his father’s temper, which made itself known again when he stood up and said sharply:

‘Answer him, boy!’ Jason jumped at his shout, but opened his mouth and spoke, slowly and with effort.

‘Could you... _listen_ again?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Charles answered and concentrated. The thought manifested itself:

 _Will you make me cut my hair?_

Puzzled by the question, Charles slipped a little deeper into his mind, and found a memory. He experienced the reminiscence comprised into a second, and during that moment it was him putting his arms over his head to stop the scissors and then thinking, _I wish you would cut your throat with the scissors! _and, as if transposed onto reality, he saw the scissors coming alive in the barber’s hand and turning to slit the wielder’s throat. His mother screamed, and then all was back to normal...__

 _ _Not if you don’t want to,_ he promised, retreating. The smile the boy gave him now was genuine. He nodded in response. _

‘Wonderful,’ Charles concluded. He looked at Stryker and said: ‘Then, Colonel, I’ll leave you with the paperwork. Jason is welcome as soon as he wants to go.’ Alex left the file of forms on the coffee table and rose. ‘And I do suggest that you comfort your wife. I think she’s had a bit of a shock,’ he added as he turned his chair around. ‘Be in touch.’ Stryker had left the living room without the word, and in the corner of his eye he saw how he crouched in front of Mrs Stryker, who was sitting on the stairs, crying.

 _Be kind to her,_ he urged Jason as he waved at him and headed for the door. When they left, he was afraid that the advice may have been wasted on the boy.

***

One thing which spoke to Colonel Stryker’s advantage, Charles reflected, was his military precision. Less than twenty-four hours after their visit to the Stryker home, the paperwork had reached the school and they arranged for Jason to be picked up the next day. Charles was making up mark-sheets and contact forms in the boy’s name when the sound of tyres on the gravel was heard. Satisfied that the new student had arrived, he continued with his work undisturbed until there was a swift knock on the door and the click of the lock.

He had expected it to be one of the others bringing in Jason so that he could meet his teachers, but instead it was only Alex, looking bewildered.

‘Professor, sorry to disturb, but...’ Charles looked up at him, surprised.

‘Is something the matter?’ Then, extending his sense over the whole house, he then concluded: ‘They let Jason go with you - he’s here.’

‘It’s not the parents,’ Alex answered, stepping in and shutting the door quickly, as if he did not want anyone to hear this. ‘It’s the kid. The first thing he did when we got here was open his suitcase and throw all his clothes into the duckpond.’

Charles frowned, but could not help thinking it was rather comic.

‘How odd,’ he concluded. ‘Well, in that case, after he’s met everyone, take him clothes-shopping.’ Alex moaned, rubbing his eyes and asking:

‘Why me?’

‘Because I don’t trust Sean to drive,’ Charles explained sharply. Naturally both he himself and Hank were out of the question. ‘It’s a straightforward enough thing to do. Just take the boy into town and get him _something_ to wear.’

‘And when will I have time with my training routine?’ he muttered, but his complaints were cut short by another knock. This time, Hank entered.

‘Has the new student arrived?’ he asked, looking at them both.

‘He’s gonna be trouble,’ Alex warned.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ Charles said and turned to Hank. ‘Jason Stryker, eleven years old - his father’s Colonel Stryker, connected to the CIA. Jason can create psychic illusions. His control leaves much to be desired yet...’

‘Trouble,’ Alex repeated. Hank did not seem to pay either of them any attention, but just waved a hand (Charles had learned not to think “paw”) and said:

‘How many students does that make it? Seventeen?’

‘Yes, seventeen.’ Hank shook his head with a sigh.

‘Professor, don’t you see how understaffed we are?’ he asked. ‘And it’s not so much the classes as just taking care of them, keeping track of them, cooking for them... And with classes and training, and our own training, and my research and taking care of the house...’

‘Yes, I know, Hank,’ Charles sighed and picked his pen up again. This was an argument which usually flared up every time they took on a new student. There was little they could do. ‘I’m afraid finding potential teachers isn’t particularly easy. It’s not like we can put an advert in the teachers’ association magazine and hope.’ Sensing what Hank was about to say, he added: ‘And we can’t hire household staff. Of course it’d make things easier, but the risk is too great. We have to protect our own.’

A pang of bad conscience hit him; perhaps it was selfish, coming from him. He was after all the one who did not do any housework whatsoever. Nowadays he could not reach any of the work surfaces in the kitchen, and Hank, Alex and Sean had come to the decision that they did not want to risk him spilling boiling water over himself or something else unfortunate when trying. Some of the older students helped out, which he knew benefited them themselves as well as the whole household, but he could not help feeling guilty about the fact that he could do nothing. In an attempt to take some workload off the others, Charles did all the paperwork the school generated; he was after all headmaster, so it was only fair. All the same, he knew that Hank was right. They were understaffed and overworked, he himself included. When he had told Moira that he would probably have more students than he could manage, he had been correct.

‘I’m sorry, Hank,’ he sighed and leaned back, feeling resigned. ‘There’s not much we can do. Perhaps, if some of the older students want to stay after they are done...’

‘We could always find adult mutants, and recruit them,’ Alex suggested. It was not a new suggestion.

‘I’m not sure if pulling mutants who have adapted to society out of it is productive,’ he answered. ‘If they have not, of course they’d be welcome, but...’ He trailed off and looked away, aware of how Alex and Hank were exchanging glances. They were thinking about the same thing.

‘Professor, how do we know that the Brotherhood isn’t recruiting?’ Hank asked.

‘We don’t,’ Charles admitted.

‘Then shouldn’t we get to people before they do?’

‘Cerebro gives us an advantage,’ the professor reminded the maker of the device. ‘The Brotherhood may have a telepath in their lines, but they don’t have any means of magnifying her powers, like we have. Besides, the best way to safeguard mutantkind is to take care of those who are more vulnerable - the children.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ Hank sighed, but did not seem particularly happy about it.

‘Good,’ Charles said brusquely. ‘I hope you are both aware that if you spend less time complaining about how little time you have, you’ll have more time to do the things you are so hard pressed to do. Alex, go take care of Jason. Hank, if the last schedule I made hasn’t disintegrated yet, you’re giving a chemistry class in two minutes.’ The Beast gave a yelp which was ill-matched to his appearance and left with a hasty goodbye. Alex rolled his eyes and followed him, dragging his feet like a reluctant child. When they were gone Charles smiled to himself, knowing that neither of them weas angry with him for reprimanding them. He had to admit to himself, if not to others, that he enjoyed playing the role of the stern headmaster, which brought with it a certain amount of banter with the other older mutants. But deep down, it also left an emptiness, and he could not shake off the feeling that this exchange of familiar reprimands were substitutes for something much more profound. Human contact had eluded him since his injury, and suddenly he felt a stab of longing for true companionship.

‘It’s past,’ he whispered to himself, and as so many times before averted his gaze from the satellite dish visible through the window.

***

Next day was bright. Taking advantage of the weather, Sean made the students come out to play baseball on the lawn, and when Charles heard the cheers from the children, he abandoned his paperwork and went outside. Hank was already standing on the terrace, squinting against the sun and watching the game.

‘How are they doing?’ Charles asked as he approached.

‘Alright, I think,’ he answered. ‘Don’t know much about baseball, but they are enjoying themselves.’

‘Well, Sean has simplified it a little,’ Charles said. Neither he knew much about baseball, but Sean had spent breakfast considering what rules could be dropped. Hank let the implication about the professor reading the minds of those around him pass, if he had picked up on it, and instead said:

‘I can’t see the new student. Where is he?’ Charles looked at the children on the lawn and then spotting Jason, said:

‘Over there - Sean is showing him how to hold the bat right now.’ Hank followed his finger, and then leaned over the balustrade a little to see better.

‘But...’ He broke off, looked at the headmaster and then back to the lawn. ‘What?’

‘Yes, Hank?’ He narrowed his eyes and asked:

‘Why is he wearing a _dress_?’ Charles shrugged.

‘He obviously didn’t like the clothes his parents made him wear,’ he said. ‘He threw them in the pond, in fact. And when I sent Alex with him to get new clothes, Jason insisted on dresses.’ Hank considered this.

‘Should we really encourage that?’

‘I think Jason needs all the encouragement he can get,’ he admitted. ‘Our students need to feel safe, and if they do not, then what is the point of this place?’ He considered the moral implications of his telepathy for a moment, and what right he had to pass on information he had picked out of someone’s head, but as Hank was a fellow teacher, he felt could confide in him. ‘I think it is good that we took this boy with us. His father beat him. It’s not uncommon that people feel anger towards their parents, particularly not if they have trouble accepting you, but it is uncommon to hate your parents.’

‘But Jason does?’ Charles nodded.

‘Utterly, it seems. Perhaps it’s all connected,’ he said. ‘His mutant powers and his... ah, juvenile transvestism, at odds with the wishes of a dominating, strictly religious father, who uses violence as a means of asserting his authority over his son, something which the mother does little or nothing to prevent. All that leads to antipathy against his parents, which leads to him using his abilities as a means of punishing them for the abuse he has suffered, while at the same time having the consequence of him withdrawing into himself.’ He sighed at what he had just described. ‘We must pay attention to him.’

‘Are you saying he’s dangerous?’ Hank asked, casting him a worried look with catlike eyes.

‘No, but he can’t control his powers properly,’ Charles answered. ‘I’ve seen myself that he is good at creating particularly disturbing scenarios. The risk of him losing control is of course much larger if he loses his temper. For the good of the other students, we must make sure that that does not happen.’

They were silent for a while and watched the game. When Scott caught the ball, Charles shouted ‘Good catch!’ and applauded in encouragement. A few of the children who had not noticed that they were being watched turned and waved shyly at their headmaster, and they both waved back.

‘Do you think that mental problems are more common in mutant children? Or mutants overall, for that matter,’ Hank asked.

‘Undoubtedly,’ the professor answered. ‘Many of these children have had difficulties enough to make them more troubled than most others, I’m afraid. It is so easy to take the hate and fear one might meet and take it for granted, even start believing it oneself.’ He looked up at Hank, knowing that this was a subject closer to the Beast’s heart than he wanted to admit. ‘It is what makes this place so important. Not only to learn to control one’s powers, to know oneself, but to grow to love oneself, and others.’ Now Hank grinned.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Worth keeping in mind.’

‘Whenever you feel disillusioned about the teaching profession, drop into my study and I’ll tell you it again.’ Hank nodded, and they returned to watching the game. Remy missed the ball on his first try, and in an attempt to compensate for his previous mistake, he hit the ball so hard the second time that the balance went off and the ball flew in a high arc over their heads. Some of the children still tried to jump and catch it, but to no avail. It landed a little way away from them, and it was not until then Charles noticed the figure standing there.

The man put down his suitcase and went down on one knee, the brim of his fedora hiding his face, but Charles felt his mind, as if it lay nuzzled inside his own skull. There was no doubt about his identity. Awestricken, he watched as the man picked up the ball and stood up to throw it to the closest child, who caught it, staring open-mouthed at the new arrival. The running had stopped, the calls and shouts were silenced. Time itself seemed to slow. The newcomer’s gaze was lifted and turned towards the terrace. Charles felt a hand clench his heart and his mouth go dry when their eyes met and he looked into those pale eyes once again. He felt the call of his mind, and felt the wonderment Erik felt. That was probably the reason why he did not notice the fist flying toward his face.

Sean’s knuckles were only an inch from his skin when he reached. _Shouldn’t break his arm - better not do anything,_ Charles felt him thinking as he braced himself for the blow. It landed on his cheek and mouth and made him stagger back. The second punch landed on his nose and made him fall.

‘What the _hell_ are you doing here?!’ Sean shouted down at him.

‘Sean!’ Charles shouted, afraid suddenly that he would attempt to kick the newcomer. As quickly as was possible, he left the terrace and followed the gravel path around the lawn. When he finally reached them, Erik was still on the ground, but was at least propping himself up, trying to staunch a nosebleed with an expensive purple handkerchief. His gaze was as stunned now when he looked up at him from the ground as before.

‘Erik. Are you alright?’ Charles asked urgently when he came close enough.

‘Yes,’ Erik answered, even if he sounded a little dazed. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, not reflecting at once on how odd the question was from a man who had just been punched in the face. He guessed that he was a bit shocked as well. Finding that action was a good substitute for analytical thought, he locked the wheels of the chair, grabbed one armrest and reached out his free hand towards Erik. Wordlessly, he accepted it and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. They held eye-contact for a moment longer, until Charles felt forced to look away. There was a whirlpool of emotion threatening to take hold of him, but he could not give into it yet. When Erik let go of his grip, Charles’ hand came away stained with blood. Not daring to look back up at the other man, even to check how much he was bleeding, he simply shot Sean a look and told him:

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

As the children stared at their teachers, suddenly revealed as mere mortals through the odd exchange, the two men went towards the mansion. Once inside, Charles lead the way to his study and made Erik sit on the couch, facing him. Offering him his own handkerchief, he explained:

‘Hank’s getting an icepack. Perhaps you should lie down, for the nosebleed...’

‘It’s already stopping,’ Erik answered as he wiped the blood off his face and hands with moderate success. ‘It wasn’t a bad punch - much better than I’d expected.’

‘Two punches,’ Charles corrected him, rubbing his head in despair. ‘And in front of the entire school...’

‘Not quite the entrance I had hoped for,’ Erik admitted and grinned as best as the pain in his face let him. In a sudden impulse, Charles raised his hand so that his fingers brushed his face. With a wince, Erik shied away.

‘Sorry - I...’ He stared at his hand, wondering what he had intended. ‘I wanted to check how bad it was.’

‘Nothing broken,’ Erik answered, just as the door opened. Hank did not say anything, and only entered enough to give Charles the icepack, but he glared at Erik as if he had wished he had been the one to punch him.

‘Hank,’ Charles said, calling his attention. ‘Tea?’ Hank nodded.

‘I’ll tell her.’ He left, and Charles turned back to Erik, holding the icepack up to his face. He took it from him and applied it himself, his wince barely noticeable. Feeling awkward at his impulse to help him with it, Charles rubbed his hands down his trouser legs, as if wanting to rub out the imagined sensation of Erik’s skin.

‘Thank you for not breaking Sean’s arm,’ he said quietly, for want of anything else.

‘It wouldn’t have improved things,’ Erik answered. Their eyes met inadvertently, and Charles felt his heart swell again. How long since they last met? It was almost two years, he realised, since that fateful day on the Cuban beach, the never-spoken farewell, the bullet. He had never imagined that their next meeting would be like this. Not at Westchester, not on such friendly terms, not sitting opposite each other nursing the results of a fist fight.

Those two years had been kinder to Erik than to him, Charles reflected. Perhaps there was a certain worry around the eyes, but other than that, his face was unchanged, roughly hewn but quite handsome. His dress was different. Gone were the turtleneck and leather jacket, which had given him the air of a soldier trying hard to dress as a civilian. Instead, he wore a tailored suit, although the handkerchief which had was intended to be neatly folded in his breast pocket was now clasped in his hand, wrinkled and bloodstained. He had left his hat and his overcoat over a chair. Charles noticed that the overcoat had mud stains on it from when he had fallen, but resisted reaching out to brush them off. At once aware of the scrutiny he was subjecting his guest to, he turned away and crossed to his desk. He pretended to tidy it, moving items from one side to the others without plan, until his enforced concentration was disturbed by a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ It opened, and a girl of sixteen, her hair bobbed and her ears weighed by green hooped earrings, edged in, holding the door open with her back as her hands were occupied with a teatray.

‘Doctor McCoy told me you wanted tea, Professor,’ she said. ‘I added an extra cup - for your guest.’ She glanced at Erik, curiosity lighting up her eyes.

‘Wonderful, Susanna,’ Charles said and gestured to her to put it down on the table. She did, and then said:

‘I think the tray might be hot.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care. Thank you very much.’ He nodded appreciatively, and Susanna returned his smile and left, closing the door behind her after throwing a final glance at the strange man sitting on the couch. As her footsteps disappeared, Erik raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Susanna is one of my students,’ Charles explained and wheeled himself to the table. As he started pouring the tea, Erik crossed the room and took the seat opposite him. Briefly, he reflected on how odd it was, taking tea with this man. It was a glimpse of how they had been before. Shaking off the thought, he continued. ‘Susanna can create and conduct heat, and she volunteered to make my tea - as a bit of extra practice.’

‘Hence her warning about the tray,’ Erik said and reached out to touch the silver, only to draw back his hand, shaking it to get rid of the pain.

‘She did warn you,’ Charles simply said and handed him a cup. ‘How is your jaw and nose?’

‘Better, thank you.’ It looked rather painful, as it started to swell, but Erik seemed fairly unperturbed. Even in this condition, he looked quite handsome. It was not the time or the place for such reflections, he knew, but he could not seem to help it, as he could not help feeling self-conscious. His temples had gone noticeably grey over the past year or so, and his hair had started to thin. And then there was the wheelchair, which did not help with his seeming older than he was.

He shook himself; these were trivial questions, and he was fixating on the far past. Ever since the schism their group had suffered on the Cuban beach, he and Erik had been at odds with each other, if not outright enemies. They had worked for different things in different ways. He reminded himself of some of the things the Brotherhood had done - sabotaged trainlines and roads, official threats, occasionally even acts of outright violence. But here was the leader of that group, taking tea with him as the old friend he was.

‘Why are you here, Erik?’

The guest looked up, his smile between the charming and the malicious.

‘Not happy to see me, Charles?’ Charles chuckled.

‘Of course I’m happy,’ he said. ‘It’s been very long. But still... I can’t help but wonder. After all, your group has caused not a little trouble these past two years.’ Erik looked away.

‘They’re not _my_ group,’ he said, suddenly sounding annoyed. Charles hesitated.

‘Not yours?’ he repeated. ‘What does that mean?’

Erik put his tea-cup back on its saucer and stared out of the window, trying to find the right way to explain this apparently difficult situation. Charles pushed the temptation of reading his mind aside. The silence seemed to stretch out between them. When he started losing patience, hoping for an explanation, Erik spoke.

‘The Brotherhood, it turns out, is an ineffective and fragmented organisation. It’s been almost two years, and we have achieved little, perhaps nothing.’

Charles let the justification of the visit sink in, hesitating at the implication in it.

‘Whereas...?’

‘Whereas you... your school...’ Erik trailed off.

‘Do you mean...?’ It was too much and too good to believe. ‘Have you changed your mind?’ Charles managed to say at last. ‘Do you... agree with me?’ His interlocutor’s bruised jaw tightened.

‘I still believe that there is little or no hope for true reconciliation between mutants and humans,’ he said reservedly. ‘But I have changed my opinion on the methods we should use. I was certain that the humans would answer to violence, civil disruption, but I have found that perhaps... Perhaps it’s not worth it.’ The last sentence sounded half-hearted, as if it had not been how he had meant to say. Charles gave in and stretched his mind to Erik’s surface thoughts ever so briefly. The only thought he had time to sense in the confused swirl of impressions manifested itself in one word: Home. Behind Erik’s talk of organisations and means of achieving the cause, this thought represented a much more selfish motivation.

‘You’re not telling me the whole truth,’ he said outright. Erik looked him in the eye, momentarily offended, but then he smiled, as if he was after all somewhat relieved that his bluff had been called.

‘Then tell me,’ he said. ‘What is the truth?’

‘Tell _me_ ,’ Charles answered. ‘I’d rather hear you explain it yourself. I don’t know, myself - not yet.’ Erik chose his words carefully.

‘It isn’t supposed to be the way it has been, these past two years,’ he explained. ‘My people fighting your people, our enclave fighting within itself.’

‘Mutantkind must stand together to achieve anything,’ Charles clarified, but Erik shook his head.

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘When I said “our”, I wasn’t referring to mutants overall, but to you and me.’ Taking advantage of Charles’ surprised silence, he leaned in a little and continued, his eyes growing intense. ‘Don’t you see it, Charles? Apart, we are only half the men we are when we are together.’ Charles pressed his lips together defiantly.

‘I’ve been half a man since you left, Erik. Quite literarily.’ Erik glanced down and then back again, as if he did not want to look at the wheelchair. ‘Did you know?’ He nodded briefly.

‘Mystique found out,’ he explained stiffly, regret in his voice. ‘I did not quite believe her, until I saw. Is there any...?’

‘Hope for recovery? No.’ Charles averted his eyes from him. As so many times before, he wished he could blame Erik, or for that matter anyone else, for his injuries, but if there had ever been any anger, he had pushed it behind his mental shields. In its place was a cool resignation to the facts. It did not mean that it did not hurt, particularly not the loneliness, and however much he tried to deny it, it was Erik’s absence which caused the greatest pain. That sense of loneliness felt like parasitic heartburn in his chest now, threatened suddenly by the man opposite the table. He remembered what he had thought they might become once, and thought of the way he had wanted to kiss him, bitterly regretting all the opportunities he had missed.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he admitted. Erik did not answer; when he looked up, he realised that there were tears in his eyes.

‘I should have come sooner,’ Erik confided. ‘I should never have left.’ They looked at each other, Charles trying to keep himself from crying.

‘You’re here now,’ he said finally, sounding choked nevertheless. Erik’s zeal returned, and reaching out, he grabbed Charles’ arm and said:

‘We should not fight each other, my friend. We should stand side by side.’

‘Can we really see eye to eye - about other things than that theoretical statement?’

‘You mean... humans,’ Erik said. His hand fell, but his gaze remained steady.

‘Yes.’

‘And you think that it is possible to convince them? That they might stop being a threat?’

‘Eventually.’ He nodded.

‘If you truly believe that, Charles, then it is a belief I am content to subscribe to.’ Charles stared at him.

‘For... for my sake?’ he stuttered.

‘For our sake,’ Erik answered.

‘I...’ Charles shook his head. ‘I don’t quite know what to believe.’

‘If you doubt me, read my mind.’ They looked at each other again.

‘Your word is enough,’ Charles said, and as he let go of the last shred of doubt, laughter bubbled up from inside him. ‘Oh God, you’re here,’ he exclaimed and reached out, taking Erik’s hand with both his.

‘Yes,’ Erik answered, laughing too and lay his free hand over Charles’. They laughed until the laughter turned into tears of relief, and Charles raised the hands clasped in his and leaned his forehead against them. Erik was right, he knew - they should face these challenges together.

Realising suddenly how overfamiliar his actions were, he let go of the hand, and Erik drew back. The laughter had given way to an expectant silence.

‘So,’ Charles said finally. ‘How would you like to teach modern languages?’


	2. Chapter 2

Since this started, reality had stopped existing. She had started to realise that it was only made up by what people saw and heard and touched, or thought they did, not what was actually around them, and something had given her the power to change that. It had made the world a fragile place.

Her surroundings had grown a little more believable the last few days. There were still too many impressions, of sounds and smells and people’s fears, but the man who could not walk helped. She liked the mansion, and his study especially. The beauty of the house seemed contagious - people looked like they wanted to be alive here. She felt it too; she could not remember having felt so pretty, even if she hated her hair. The white-haired girl had leant her a flower made of fabric, mounted on a hair-clasp, which she wore. Her hair would grow, she knew, but she still looked like a boy playing dress-up. She avoided mirrors.

The morning-sun shone brilliantly through the French windows, casting the man who could not walk in shadows. She could still feel his gaze on her as he leaned forward a little and looked at her, where she sat opposite him.

‘So, how are you settling in?’ She shifted where she sat on the couch, feeling smaller than usual under his gaze. She could feel a tingle at the edge of her mind. Remembering his question, she nodded, then went back to thinking about that tingle. She knew what it meant by now - he was in her mind. Perhaps he was already reading it, without telling her. ‘Have you made any friends yet?’ If he were reading his mind, then there was no reason for him to speak to her... ‘Jason? I asked you a question.’

There had been a question - friends. She shook her head. The white-haired girl was not really a friend, even if she had leant her the flower. She did not like the blind boy who could see - he had told her her hair looked silly. The boy with the red eyes had said she was pretty, though. But no friends yet.

Suddenly the tingle in her head grew to a touch, and looking around, she was that the man who could not walk had put his fingers to his temple, like she had seen him do before. She did not know how to evict him, but instead, she made him see a set of bars between them. The tingle stopped and his hand fell.

‘I’m sorry. That was most impolite.’ She nodded and stared at him. The sun must be behind a cloud, because she could see him now, his eyes looking back at hers. Finally he sighed and pushed his hair out of the way. ‘Jason, I want to help you, but I can’t, if you don’t let me. Now, I should have asked your permission to read your thoughts first, but reading them makes me job easier, and if you don’t speak to me, you leave me little choice.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want it to be easy,’ she answered, surprised at her own audacity.

‘Don’t you want me to help you?’ he asked. ‘To control your powers, to teach you to filter your perceptions? It must be frustrating, not being certain what is real and what is not.’ She settled on glaring at him. ‘Has it always been like that?’ Silence, and then his presence in his mind. ‘It started when your powers manifested, didn’t it?’ She did not say anything, and instead of pressing on, he asked: ‘Do you mind that I call you Jason, or is there another name you prefer?’

Now, she forced herself to speak.

‘Why?’

‘Well, you think of yourself as “she”,’ he observed.

‘I don’t want you in my head,’ she said sharply.

‘Is there another name you’d prefer?’ he simply repeated. She pressed her lips together. There was a name, but she did not want to tell him. She had been good with names before she could make illusions, before she started sensing things. Now, people were just bundles of things they were - names did not mean anything. It was obvious that he did not understand, because now he said: ‘And when we’re on the subject of names, my name is Professor Xavier, not “the man who can’t walk”.’

‘It’s not your name,’ she said. ‘It’s what you are.’

‘An individual’s name always says much more about them than a brief description of them,’ he pressed on. ‘Do you know where yours comes from? It’s Greek - the name of the hero who lead the Argonauts in the quest of the Golden Fleece. It’s related to the verb _iaomai_ \- it means “I heal”. Isn’t that a name to live up to?’ She looked at him. Names were silly things, and they only trapped you. Besides, even if her first names meant that, her surname meant someone who harmed, so they did not say anything about her. ‘You can’t read minds, can you? Only manipulate them?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘I know what scares people,’ she said.

‘Why would you scare them?’ he asked. ‘You can use your powers to other things - good things. It doesn’t have to harm people.’ _But when people deserve it..._ ‘No-one deserves to be hurt,’ he said sternly. It was not true, she knew, and just as she imagined the one who deserved it most of all, he read her mind. ‘Do you think your father deserves it? Because he hurt you?’ She flinched, as if he had struck her, like her father had, and forced the image of the no-man’s-land into his mind. ‘Jason, don’t.’ Something in his sharp tone disturbed her concentration, and the illusion dissolved. They looked at each other again, but finally his solemn mask slipped and he smiled.

‘Well, I’m glad we had this chat,’ he said. ‘We’ll continue with building shields as we planned earlier. Until I see you again, Jason - and indeed after that - keep this in mind. Try not to use your powers to get your view through. Every time you feel like making an illusion to _tell_ someone something, count to ten and try to say it out loud.’ He smiled kindly, and she felt the impulse to smile back. ‘Just as you don’t like it when I read your mind, people tend not to like it when you change how they see the world around them.’ The urge to smile disappeared. ‘Go have breakfast - I won’t keep you longer.’ She got to her feet, and as he said goodbye, she tried to count to ten, but instead remained silent and left.

***

The headache which those who were not familiar with Charles’ mannerisms assumed he suffered from was rapidly becoming reality. The previous day had felt like an odd dream, even after the excitement of Erik’s arrival had settled. Erik and he had dinner alone together. There had been so much to say that Charles had not borne the thought of breaching any of the topics closer to heart, so they had spoken only of events of the past years far enough removed from themselves to be comfortable. They discussed the Kennedy assassination, British colonies breaking free, the Civil Rights Act which would end racial segregation, and the recent Philadelphia race riot, which bore the dark promise of a long road to walk. Even as they talked about these things which Charles burned for, his interest in the topics they discussed were eclipsed by feeling Erik’s eyes on his face and once brushing against his hand when they reached for the salt at the same time. One part of him claimed that this must be a dream, while another hoped it was, and yet another reeled at the fact that it was not. Regardless of all those dreams, this time it was true. It was Erik who shared the meal with him, who took his queen with a flourish before losing his own king to a pawn, who awkwardly clasped his hand by way of saying good-night.

The new day had woken him to the reality of the situation. First of all, his chat with Jason had not gone well, and had made him realise anew how much work his new student would be. Worse, he realised that the rest of the team had not been informed that they had a new colleague, so when Erik entered the dining room for breakfast, Hank, Alex and Sean all jumped to their feet at the sight of him.

‘Why are _you_ still here?’ asked Alex, staring at him in disbelief.

‘I’m still here because Charles asked me to be,’ Erik answered coolly and crossed to the table, which was only laid for four.

‘Sean, would you please get another plate and cup and a set of cutlery from the kitchen?’ Charles asked kindly. Sean grunted and left. As he passed into the corridor with heavy footsteps, Charles shouted after him: ‘Without breaking anything!’ Sean did not, but when he returned he well night threw the china down on the table. Then he returned to his scrutiny of Erik, along with the other two younger mutants. His gaze was angry, Alex’s disgusted, Hank’s apprehensive. It seemed like the latter was all down to Hank’s good manners, because when he spoke, a hint of his beastlike temper could be heard.

‘You didn’t answer Alex’s question. What _are_ you doing here?’

‘As I said, Charles...’

‘ _Professor Xavier_ ,’ Hank said through gritted teeth.

‘Goodness, Hank, calm down,’ Charles said, looking from one to the other. ‘I haven’t asked any of you not to call me by my first name. Erik is my friend, as are all of you. You are all free to call me Charles, if you like. As for your question, Erik is here because he has chosen to be. He’s accepted to take the language classes.’ The others stared at him, then at Erik, and then back.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Sean said finally.

‘He’s going, now,’ Alex said lividly. ‘He’s spying.’

‘Boys, please. You keep complaining about how overworked you are. Well, I’ve found us another teacher. Erik is not a spy - The Brotherhood has been disbanded. He is no longer affiliated with it. He’s here because he wants to help in our _shared_ cause.‘

‘Did he tell you that?’ Hank asked, his usual growl turning high-pitched with agitation. ‘It’s probably a lie!’

‘Hank, I’m a telepath.’ Charles tapped his forehead in illustration. ‘People don’t lie to me without my knowing it.’

‘I have nothing further to do with the Brotherhood,’ Erik said, who had been standing and listening passively. Now he looked at each of them in turn, as if to prove it. ‘That is true.’

‘It’s too easy,’ Alex muttered. ‘Someone like you don’t just drop something like that.’

‘I think you’re all being very harsh,’ Charles said. Being the only one sitting down was making him a little nervous; there was no way for him to answer the aggression in the room. ‘You should welcome him back.’

‘He’s not the prodigal son,’ Hank said sharply. ‘We can’t simply forgive him.’

‘If you’re referring to what I think you are referring to, surely that should be up to me?’ Charles asked. A guilty silence fell as the boys looked away. Ignoring them, Charles turned to Erik and said, still to the others: ‘I am very pleased that he is back.’ A small, assured smile answered his.

‘No, wait,’ Hank said and took a few steps towards Charles. ‘Professor, isn’t this something we should... well, discuss?’

‘He’s not fit as a teacher,’ Alex snapped.

‘You’re not exactly a star candidate, Alex - you have a criminal record the length of my arm,’ Charles answered, and then reflected that to be fair, Erik did as well. ‘To answer your question, Hank, no, we’re not _discussing_ this. I think you’re all being most unfair. I think he’ll be...’ He paused for a moment. ‘He’ll be wonderful. Now won’t you all sit down? It’d be a nice change to have breakfast in an atmosphere which resembles the Yalta Conference a little less, thank you. You too, Erik - sit down. Have some of the tea, if you like.’

‘How British,’ Erik commented and sat down opposite Charles. ‘Anything can be solved with tea.’

‘Why, naturally,’ Charles smiled, and continued with his breakfast, despite the now fully formed throb in his head.

***

The headache continued through the physics class until lunch, when Charles finally gave up and fell back on aspirin. By early afternoon, the pain was little but a mild inconvenience, which left him with no excuse not to tackle the task of remaking the schedule for the third time since the start of term. He was trying to avoid a clash between Hank’s maths class and his own biology class when there was a knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ he called, feeling Erik’s presence. Still the impact of seeing him was much greater. He was dressed similarly to yesterday, although his tie was red instead of purple. There was something a little lopsided about his appearance, which Charles first attributed to the way his lip was swollen on one side, but then he realised that it was because he had one shirt-sleeve folded up and the other down, securely fastened with a silver cufflink. His right arm was exposed, leaving the mark on his left hidden, so that the revealed skin did not speak of past pain, but of simply its own being. The tan on that arm and the hairs on it caught Charles’ attention, only released to look at his face.

‘Hello, Erik,’ Charles said finally, albeit too softly and too quietly not to sound awed. ‘You look very content. The others not giving you a too hard time?’

‘I think they’ve been keeping out of my way,’ Erik answered and approached him. ‘I don’t mind it.’ Then he looked at the chaotic desk between them and asked: ‘Would you rather I came back later?’

‘No, please,’ Charles said quickly. ‘I’m glad to be distracted. Do sit down.’ He did, as Charles explained: ‘I’m trying to redo the schedule. It shouldn’t be this hard, but there always ends up with a clash - for the students, for us...’

‘How have you been able to make a full schedule with four of you?’ Erik asked.

‘With difficulty,’ Charles admitted. ‘Only Hank and I really teach, too. We’ve split the subjects between us. Sean is in charge for study-hours in the afternoons, and Alex is in charge of sport, with Sean’s help, and combat training, for those who want or need it. As you see, we could use another hand.’ Erik nodded. ‘I was thinking that we might start off with French and German,’ Charles continued. ‘Every student would have to take one of them. Of course, if they are ambitious enough to take both, that’s only positive.’ Sick of the fruitless work with the schedule, he pushed it aside and clasped his hands together on the desk instead. ‘Is there anything you need for your lessons?’

‘I had a look at your library this morning,’ Erik said. ‘All I could find was this.’ He held up the book he had been carrying. It was a French grammar, badly battered and losing its spine.

‘Is that really all?’ Charles asked, a little ashamed that the usually well-stocked library was proving a disappointment. ‘Well, we’ll need to do something about that. There’s a good bookshop in Salem Centre - we’ve managed to strike a deal with them. I’ll give them a call, and you can drive in and collect what you need.’

‘Good,’ Erik said and crossed his legs, as if more comfortable now when planning was out of the way. ‘This place, Charles... I’m impressed.’ Charles pretended to study a piece of scrap paper.

‘We’ve been busy,’ he finally settled on saying.

‘When did you open the school?’

‘We took in the first student in early ’63,’ he answered

‘It’s not been two years - and already sixteen students...’

‘Seventeen, actually,’ Charles said, stiffening at the implication of what he had said. ‘Considering that your information is just a few days old, I guess that you didn’t get it from the others.’

‘The Brotherhood has many flaws, but it’s good for gathering intelligence,’ Erik answered levelly, but there was something guarded about his smile. Charles looked at him, struck by his use of the present tense. Briefly, he considered reading his mind to find out whether it was simply a case of his not having processed the change or whether it was something more telling, but for all the leeway he gave himself with his ethics, he did not want to violate Erik’s trust. It meant too much.

‘How could you know?’ he asked instead.

‘Word gets around,’ Erik explained. ‘There’s an underground Mutant community in New York, the Morlocks, which is perfect to pick up rumours from.’ Noticing Charles’ reservation, he added: ‘We only knew the number of students, nothing more. It was never part of any plan.’

‘Then what was it?’ Charles asked, leaning back.

‘News from home,’ he answered candidly. Charles felt oddly touched by hearing him admit it.

‘How is Raven?’ He had thought about it previously, but he had been too overcome to ask. Neither Erik seemed particularly comfortable with the subject, because he shifted in his chair and stared at the carpet.

‘She’s known only as Mystique now,’ he said finally.

‘She’s my sister,’ Charles reminded him.

‘At least she was, once,’ Erik said, almost as if he were correcting him.

‘Is she well?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, eyes still on the floor. ‘Very well. Better than before...’ He trailed off, and Charles had to prompt him to continue. ‘...than before we left.’ Charles looked away, trying to recall more than disjointed moments of what had happened after he had been hit by the stray bullet. He knew that Raven had said goodbye to him, but he could not quite remember it. According to what the others had told him, however, she had been unharmed when she left.

‘Why are you talking about her as if there was something wrong with her before?’ he asked.

‘She was unhappy,’ Erik simply said.

‘And walking around without her clothes on makes her happier?’ Charles supplied sharply. He had heard the reports, and he had not been able to work through the outrage yet.

‘That is who she is,’ he answered with a shrug, and got up. As he crossed to the nearest bookshelf, Charles felt a year-old worry return. He remembered how, when they had just met him, Raven had looked at Erik and how she had thought about him. They had left together - had what she had hoped for become reality? Once again he stopped himself from plucking the answer directly out of Erik’s head; it was a harder impulse to fight than when the topic was possibly spying on the school. He considered asking instead, but he feared he would not like the answer. Annoyed at his bout of jealousy toward his lost sister, he simply stayed silent, watching how Erik drew a finger over the book spines as he studied their titles. After a long while, he stopped and pulled out a book.

‘Perhaps not the best book for beginners’ German,’ Charles commented.

‘Not quite,’ Erik answered as he leaved through _Die Traumdeutung_. ‘I always thought it all seemed very contrived.’

‘It’s good stuff,’ Charles answered. ‘Very much so. It seems to me that psychoanalysis is the theory which gets closest to capture the essence of a mind.’ Erik looked up, raising an eyebrow.

‘Sex?’

‘Instinctive urges,’ he said, feeling oddly embarrassed by Erik’s blunt mention. ‘Be it sex or destructiveness - primal religion, or dreams of the communal subconscious. It exposes the forces which pull us between extremes - love, hate, fear, desire...’ Erik nodded, glancing up at him. ‘You know, I took up German because I wanted to read Freud in the original. It was an awful idea. I never got particularly good at it.’ Now the other man laughed.

‘Is being a telepath an advantage in practicing?’ he asked.

‘Before, when I studied, it was a huge drawback,’ Charles admitted, sighing at the memories of his own enthusiastic studies which had come close to going wrong. ‘I’d pick things out of my patients’ minds which they hadn’t told me, things they weren’t ready to tell me... I felt that it was a dangerous situation - what if I’d got the information mixed up, or couldn’t remember which dream they had told me about and which one they hadn’t mentioned? How would they react? I was afraid that they might think that I had betrayed their trust, and that it would make their condition worse. It was one of the reasons why I decided to change directions to genetics after finishing my medical degree.’ While he listened, Erik put the book back and returned to his chair by the desk.

‘But now?’ he asked.

‘Well, now -’ Charles threw his hands out ‘-everyone knows I’m a telepath.’

‘Does that mean you don’t get many patients?’ Erik asked, his smile bordering on the compassionate. But Charles shook his head, suddenly feeling rather proud of his achievement.

‘Not at all,’ he answered. ‘I’ve realised that it can be just as beneficial to have sessions which are completely telepathic.’

‘So you’ve taking the talking out of the talking cure,’ Erik surmised.

‘Well, not entirely,’ Charles said with a smile, ‘it’s all up to the patient, of course. But I find that the telepathy is particularly effective.’

‘Who do you analyse, then?’

‘Mostly students.’ Erik frowned.

‘Students?’ he repeated. ‘I would have expected that you didn’t take in just anyone.’

‘It’s not a place for training soldiers, Erik,’ Charles answered lightly. ‘My wish is that when these gifted young people leave the school, they can be a part of society if they so wish. Teaching them to control and use their mutant powers is just a part of that. Making them feel comfortable in their own skin is another part of it.’

 _You never let Mystique be comfortable in_ her _skin._

The thought seemed to leap at Charles, strong enough to break through his shields. Pretending he had not heard it, he continued:

‘It’s not a sign of weakness, you know. By the yardstick of psychoanalysis, we’re all ill, and the cause of that is life. To be quite honest, I’d be worried for anyone who _didn’t_ have any neuroses. It’s a way to keep us sane.’

‘Then the mind is a paradox,’ Erik observed and clasped his hands together. Something in the insight of this contradiction seemed to delight him in some dark way. ‘We drive ourselves mad in order to save ourselves from madness.’ Put that way, it sounded suddenly morbid. Charles tried to find somewhere to look, uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘But then,’ Erik continued, ‘you remove that second madness, thus canceling out the first.’

‘Essentially, yes,’ Charles admitted. He felt Erik’s gaze on him, and was surprised to realise that there was nothing mocking in his eyes.

‘Do you think it works?’ he asked, his tone frank. Charles hesitated, feeling how he reevaluated the discipline he had always had such faith in, and then said:

‘Yes. I think it does.’ Erik seemed to consider something, a thought floating on the outskirts of his mind, or perhaps, Charles thought, his stomach giving a surprised jolt, a request, but he did not say anything after all, instead unclasping his hands and shifting.

‘I should start planning my lessons,’ he said and rose.

‘Yes, of course,’ Charles said quickly, feeling that perhaps he had been keeping him from his work. ‘I’ll tell you when the schedule’s done. Let me know, well, how it goes.’ Erik nodded and took the grammar book under his arm again. When he left, he looked over his shoulder at Charles. There was a moment of seriousness in his eyes, then a brief smile before he left. Charles covered his mouth with his fingers and kept it there long after the door had closed, trying to hide the silly smile on his lips.

***

It took several days after the new schedule was finished until Charles was completely convinced that the timetable worked. When they had managed a week on it with only minor changes, they finalised it. He found an odd pleasure in watching the students’ awe at their new teacher, whom he had always found so handsome. His appearance became even more striking when he dressed in a tailored suit and combed his hair back. The younger students seemed intimidated, while the older stared at him in terrified admiration, and at least some of them had noticed his good looks. He noticed once when he and Erik had walked down the corridor, Susanna had tugged Becky’s sleeve and then suffered a particularly girlish giggling-fit. Charles did not find it particularly funny - in fact, it annoyed him that Erik had become the heartthrob of the school. After spending some time thinking through his own reactions, he settled on that it was a combination of jealousy (it implied that he himself was no longer attractive - the girls certainly never giggled when _he_ passed) and possessiveness (he still wished the rapport Erik and he shared would become something beyond what it now was). But just as he, despite his annoyance, understood the girls who eyed him, he also understood the children who cowered at the sight of him, because the new task of teaching had not made Erik any less terrifying. Charles was fairly certain that he was completely reasonable in the classroom, but something in his countenance made his students work as if the Devil were after them. At break-time, the children would cluster together on the lawn, and a frenzied chant of _der, den, dem, des, die, die, dem, der, das, das, dem, des_ could be heard, only interrupted by a rambling of French irregular verbs.

Charles was watching the groups of article-repeating students from the window in his study when there was a knock on the door and he felt Erik enter.

‘Not hard at work, Charles?’ he said as he crossed the spacious room to his side.

‘I’ve just spent an hour trying to teach Jason to build mental shields,’ Charles answered and rubbed his eyes. ‘Absolutely exhausting.’

‘She’s very studious,’ Erik observed. Charles sighed.

‘Yes, but he’s stubborn. And he’s not particularly happy with talking to me, which doesn’t help. Mind your foot, Erik.’ Erik drew it back, saving it from being squashed under the wheel of the chair when Charles backed away from the window and turned.

‘Perhaps she’s not comfortable with it,’ Erik observed as Charles started stuffing his pipe. The routine always calmed him; it brought back the tranquility of doing it for his father. ‘If you treat her like she’s a problem which needs to be righted...’

‘That’s not how I treat him, Erik,’ Charles said sharply and immediately regretted it. ‘I just want him to function around other people, which frankly he doesn’t now. Has he ever answered a question in your class?’

‘No,’ Erik answered after a moment’s thought.

‘That’s because he barely talks,’ he explained, lit the pipe and sucked at it before continuing. ‘Instead, he makes illusions, but that brings it down to an emotional plain, which makes communication incredibly difficult. I think that the emergence of his powers has disturbed his perception, so he can’t sort out what to concentrate on, and making illusions therefore becomes easier.’ Erik seemed to consider this, but it was obvious that he was not convinced. ‘What would you have me do? He’s twelve years old, and he’s obviously regressed - besides, it disturbs people to have their perception changed like that...’

‘How do you know that she is not interpreting it as if you are inhibiting her powers? Telling her that they are _wrong_?’ Erik asked, an edge to his voice. ‘A twelve-year old will believe what you do, not what you say, and even if you say that you are there to help her, if you treat her as a _problem_...’ Charles shook his head, raising a hand to silence him.

‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he explained. ‘I’m not in the mood to discuss it.’ Erik sighed.

‘Very well.’ He took two steps toward him and then stopped. ‘Just don’t clip her wings.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Charles said, and it sounded like a promise. They looked at each other now, and despite Erik’s folded arms, it was obvious that the argument was over.

‘She’s powerful, though,’ Erik observed. ‘That much is obvious.’ Refraining to say that was what he was worried for, Charles simply nodded. ‘What would you use her for?’

‘Me? _Use_ him for?’ Charles repeated and puffed his pipe. ‘Well, if you’re thinking of combat situations, of course he’d be useful, but... I think he’d do more good with trying to make positive illusions.’

‘How?’ Erik asked. ‘You just said that people didn’t like to have their perception changed.’

‘But some people might need it,’ Charles supplied. ‘And of course it wouldn’t be without their consent. It could for example be used in medical care - to take away pain, help patients through situations they find disturbing...’

‘You want to make everyone into a do-gooder,’ Erik observed.

‘Oh, don’t mock me,’ Charles said, but nevertheless noticed him smiling. Suddenly, Erik seemed to drop the subject and instead say:

‘How about a walk?’ When Charles looked at him oddly, he shrugged and explained: ‘The weather’s nice, and you could do with some air.’ The overworked headmaster gave in and put his pipe aside.

‘Yes, you’re right. Good idea.’

As soon as Erik had fetched his own coat and hat, and Charles’ coat and blanket, they left the mansion. After not long, Erik fell back behind him and, gesturing to him to let go of the wheels, pushed him instead. Charles, who was usually so reluctant to relinquish control over his chair, nevertheless let him, content with being in his care. He reflected that if he wanted to, Erik could continue walking by his side and control the metal in the chair, but he was glad that he had taken the pains of holding the handles. Despite his willingness to let him push the chair, having his hands empty felt odd. For want of anything better to do with them, he put them in his lap, balling them up around the blanket, which served little purpose, it seemed, other than to hide his unmoving legs from the sight of others.

They walked in silence a good while, watching the birds cleaving the sky and filling the air with their song. They had walked for the best part of half an hour when they reached an old wooden building, where they stopped, and Erik sat down on the steps. Charles moved so that they were side by side.

‘This used to be the stables,’ he said after a while. ‘And this field here-’ he pointed out in front of them ‘-was the paddock.’

‘You had horses?’

‘Yes,’ Charles said, smiling at the memory. ‘I loved them as a child. I miss riding.’ He had not planned to reveal that last fact, but it had slipped out, and somehow he did not mind it. Usually, he made a rule of not speaking of the things he missed, sometimes not even to himself - strolling, running, dancing, swimming, riding, fucking. Articulating any of it had not happened before. He had assumed that he had the upper hand, being the telepath, but it seemed like the ease with which he confided in Erik had not changed during their separation. Pushing these considerations to one side, he asked: ‘Do you ride?’ Erik shook his head.

‘No. I’m too much of a city boy.’ Charles smiled.

‘Yes. When I moved from this place, I never really had time for it.’ He thought about the beautiful chestnut mare he had used to ride, and felt quite melancholic all of a sudden. ‘We had to sell the horses when my mother died,’ he explained. ‘We basically boarded up the house, and it seemed silly to keep the staff when the place stood empty, so...’ Erik nodded, staring out on the empty field, lost in thought.

‘Were you there?’ he asked finally.

‘When we sold the horses?’ Charles asked, confused.

‘When your mother died,’ Erik clarified.

‘Oh.’ He realised that he should have known that that was what he had meant. Feeling self-conscious about having misunderstood him, he answered: ‘No, I was in England. She’d been ill for a long time, but, well, I kept putting off going home to see her. She didn’t really let anyone know how ill she was.’ Suddenly not daring to look at Erik, he sensed his surface thoughts instead. _How wasteful - even love is not worth his full attention._ ‘My mother was a complicated woman,’ Charles added. He swallowed and admitted: ‘She didn’t really love me.’ Erik looked at him. A beat, then:

‘It must have been... difficult.’ His struggle with trying to conceive of such a thing was visible in his eyes. Charles remembered the memory he had seen years ago, and for a brief moment he felt the reckless love Erik still felt for his mother.

‘Knowing it was worst,’ he said with a joyless smile. ‘Being a telepath isn’t always that convenient.’ Then he shrugged and looked at him. ‘But it meant that we weren’t particularly close. Raven and I had each other instead.’

‘Still,’ Erik said, and Charles felt an wave of feeling from him. It took him a moment to realise that it was pity. It seemed to him that the last person to pity anyone should be Erik. Then again, perhaps that was a patronising thing to think. Just because he had been through unspeakable things did not mean that there were parts of his life which he treasured. His mother’s love for him was one such thing. Charles thought it was a petty thing in comparison, but to Erik, it was not. However small that moment of his mother’s smile had been, it was more important to him than any equally short moment in Charles’ life.

Feeling a sudden need to know that Erik was not angry with him, he turned to him and looked him in the eye. Erik returned the glance steadily, and after a moment’s hesitation, put his hand on his arm. Charles looked away momentarily, embarrassed but flattered. When he looked at him again, he was struck by how little he still understood of this man.

‘Why did you come back, Erik?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair but without shaking off his hand. It was a genuine question, not a reproach. ‘For this?’ he gestured out over the field. ‘Walks and empty horse paddocks?’ It seemed unreal that someone would choose this, a dull and toilsome life, over the free existence of the Brotherhood. ‘Two years ago, you were slitting the throats of war-criminals for a living. Only a few weeks back, you were planning sabotage for mutants’ rights. Quite unlike being a teacher.’

‘Yes,’ Erik admitted, looking out over the field. Then he turned and looked him in the eye again. ‘But I was not alive.’ Charles swallowed, self-conscious under his gaze. ‘You gave me purpose, Charles,’ he said, emotion in his voice. ‘That is why I came back.’ Charles smiled and looked away, realising that he was blushing.

‘Your accent’s got stronger since you came back,’ he observed instead. Erik shrugged.

‘This place... it stirs things.’

‘Perhaps there’s more to Erik Lehnsherr than Erik Lehnsherr,’ Charles suggested. ‘And I don’t mean the part that is Magneto.’ Erik looked at him and said:

‘Perhaps. Somewhere. But I don’t remember much.’

‘Don’t you want that part of you back?’ Charles asked.

‘What part?’

‘Your childhood,’ Erik pulled back his hand suddenly and crossed his arms, as if against the cold. The place where it had rested on Charles’ arm felt oddly vulnerable.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted finally. ‘Perhaps it is someone else’s life.’ Charles waited, and when he said nothing else, he asked:

‘Can I ask something?’ Erik looked at him briefly before turning away again, but nodded. ‘What is the first thing you do remember properly?’

‘I have earlier memories, but they don’t feel particularly reliable. The first thing that feels real...’ He fixed his eyes on a point close to his foot and spoke. ‘I found a hole in the ghetto wall. It was soon after we had been moved from Düsseldorf to Minsk. I had stolen a pen-knife from my father. It was the first thing I ever stole - I remember feeling sick with guilt about it. But I needed it.’

‘What did you do?’ Charles asked, hushed.

‘I crawled out through the hole. There was an officer...’ He closed his eyes hard, as if trying to make sense of the jumbled memories. ‘I wanted to kill him,’ he explained. His voice had suddenly gone thin. ‘I had the knife in my hand and thought that I could do it...’ He broke off and opened his eyes again, the remembered tenseness gone. ‘My uncle stopped me,’ he said, calmer now. ‘It turned out that he’d known about the hole - he’d been sneaking out of the ghetto and smuggling food back in for weeks.’ He shrugged. ‘He was very angry with me for almost having gotten myself killed, but after that, he brought me with him. I could climb in through the small kitchen windows. Everyone else was starving too, but in the ghetto... There was no food at all.’

Charles looked at his friend, in whose eyes the memory of that desperate hunger flickered and then receded. Both ashamed and grateful that he had never gone hungry or felt such despair, he tore his gaze away from him.

‘How old were you?’ he asked when the silence became too oppressive.

‘Eleven.’ He tried to imagine how it must impact a person to want to kill someone at such a young age, or to have to steal from others for one’s own survival.

‘I shouldn’t have brought it up,’ Charles concluded. ‘I’m sorry.’ In the corner of his eye, he noticed Erik looking at him.

‘No,’ he said, still somber but calmer too. ‘Don’t be.’ He forced out a breath which came out half as a laugh. ‘I’ve never had anyone to tell before.’ Charles looked at him now, taking in the mixture of sadness and relief. ‘I’m glad for it,’ he added.

‘Then... I am too,’ Charles added. ‘I’m happy to listen. Always.’ Erik straightened up from his hunched position, and his smile gained a teasing edge.

‘Trying to analyse me, professor?’ But before Charles had time to answer, that smile disappeared, and Erik said, humour gone: ‘Perhaps it’d be a good idea.’ Charles stared at him, fighting down his exhilaration at the veiled request. Then his professionalism kicked in, and he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Erik, I can’t,’ he said earnestly. ‘It’d be... inappropriate.’

‘Inappropriate?’ Erik repeated, frowning. Charles sighed and shook the hair out of his forehead, trying to hide his regret.

‘An analyst needs to be impartial,’ he explained. ‘I... I don’t think I am that with you.’ Erik seemed about to argue, but he continued: ‘You’re my best friend, Erik. Even after these years. I couldn’t take on such a thing - it’d clash. I might end up doing more harm than good.’ He refrained from spelling out other reasons why he would be ill-suited as his therapist, deciding to ignore that unspoken undercurrent in their relationship, which had always been there.

‘You’re the only person I have ever talked to about any of this,’ Erik said, looking perplexed, as if he thought what Charles was saying was absolutely absurd. ‘You have been inside my mind - what could possibly...?’ Charles shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘But I need to have standards. If not - if I let my professional and personal lives converge more than they already do... No. I need to keep things separate. For both our sakes. If you’d like me to, I’d be happy to refer you...’

‘You just said you were willing to listen,’ Erik reminded him. He did not sound angry, but very disappointed.

‘Of course I’d be, but... It’s not the same thing.’ Then again, the line was thin. Picking apart what people told him of themselves had become second nature to him, even when the stories were told informally. Had he not immediately began to reevaluate what he already knew of Erik in the light of the memory he had recounted? ‘Let’s not make it anything too formal, shall we?’ he said finally and forced a smile. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help...’ He fell quiet, suddenly struck by an idea. ‘Would you let me do something?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ Erik said, put on guard.

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ Charles admitted. ‘But it’d involve my entering your mind briefly.’

‘Now?’

‘No, later,’ he said. ‘It won’t work if I tell you when, or what. But I think it’d be useful.’ Erik considered it, and then nodded.

‘I trust you.’ Charles smiled and felt the sudden impulse to reach out and take his hand. Instead, he clasped his hands tightly in his lap.

‘Thank you,’ he said, meaning it. Erik nodded appreciatively and stood.

‘Let’s get back.’ They went back towards the mansion in companionable silence. The only contact between them was when Erik’s fingers on the wheelchair handles brushed against Charles’ shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

The speculations had started as soon as Erik arrived - that had been inevitable. When they were not given any proper explanations about their new teacher, the students instead spun theories about who he was, what he could do and why Sean had punched him as a greeting. None of the theories Erik had overheard had come close to anything resembling the truth. He had feared that he would hear the name Magneto in the corridors, but there were no whispers, and the children’s trepidation was only grounded in his annoyance at their grammatical mistakes.

Contrary to what he had expected when he started teaching, his German group was making more progress than the French class. The former was soon ready to start reading proper texts - Erik had spent the evenings making pencil marks by possible poems in the books he had purchased - while the latter was still trudging through the most basic grammar. In the third week of teaching, he gave the class a test, telling them that if everyone in the class passed, he would consider teaching them a small number of swearwords. He knew that Charles would appreciate that teaching technique; as he settled behind the desk and watched the children hunch over their tests with sudden enthusiasm, he imagined how his friend might laugh at it. The dignified frown he had taken to wearing would give way for the laughter, and it would make him look younger than his years. A spark often absent in his eyes would light again, and his appearance would become an intermarriage of dazzling colour - azure irises, vermilion lips and ivory-white teeth.

Realising that he was close to daydreaming, he shook himself mentally and concentrated on the Schiller he had brought with him, glancing up occasionally to make sure that no-one was cheating. Even as he tried to pay attention to the class and the poetry, he reflected that being close to Charles did not mean that he spent any less time thinking about him. Their reunion had certainly been different than he had expected, but he had only himself to blame for that.

An hour later, as he sent the children on their way and collected the tests, he was still occupied with that gnawing guilt. But there was not just guilt - there was hope too. He was here to redeem himself, after all; his presence was an act of asking for forgiveness, of throwing rocks into the river. What ultimately mattered was that they were both alive and no longer separated. From there, it would only take some courage and some patience, and he would be able to break down the wall of formality between them, little by little. Not that teaching left much time for wooing. It was that English word which strung to mind; he paused and tried to remember what he would call it in Yiddish or German. There must be some word in some language which did not sound quite so ridiculous.

He continued trying to find synonyms as he went back to his room. As he opened the door, he thought he heard something around the corner, and although there was no-one to be seen, he stopped, listening. The floorboards did not creak and there were no footsteps, so after a moment he dismissed it as paranoia and left the corridor.

Charles had given him the room he had had back when they had been training, and even during that short week, he had grown attached to the old portraits and the antique furniture. When he entered, he took his jacket off and threw it over one of the armchairs. His recently starched cuffs were uncomfortable around his wrists, so he unclasped the cufflinks without touching them and moved them to the dresser with a wave of his hand. Relinquishing his command over them, he rolled up his sleeves and then picked up the tests. As he read through the first one, he shook his head, feeling resigned. By the look of the first question, Scott had single-handedly deprived the class of a lesson in French curses. So much for that attempt at the carrot...

Erik stopped suddenly, with a distinct feeling that something was wrong. His gaze left the test sheets and he turned his left lower arm to inspect the unmarred skin. Surely that was his left arm? But he must be mistaken... Turning his other arm so that the underside was visible, he found it untouched.

The papers fell out of his grip. As puzzlement threatened to turn into panic, he ran his fingers over the skin on his arm, searching for some trace. The tattoo had been there in the morning when he dressed, but now...

‘S'iz nit miglekh,’ he said to himself. His resolve broke - his finger-nails sunk into his arm. Perhaps he could dig it up from behind his skin, make it visible and real again...‘Neyn, neyn - Got!’

As if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut, he fell to his knees, no longer certain what was happening. He tried to catch his breath and steadying himself with his right arm, looked at the left. Red welts were already rising over six numerals, inscribed in deep-set ink. A barely controllable yowl escaped him, and he felt himself starting to shake with relief and confusion. The door opened. When he looked up, he felt like he was groveling at the feet of an enthroned figure, not collapsed in front of a cripple.

‘Why...?’

Charles shook his head, his face a blank mask of shock.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered and reached out. Numbed with the violence of his reaction, Erik let him take his hand and pull him closer. Charles hesitated and then embraced him. Despite the revulsion he felt at what had happened, Erik, still on his knees, put his arms around him and rested his head against his chest. Obviously relieved, Charles dug his fingers into his hair and pressed him closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his voiced hitching, and planted a dry kiss on the top of his head. It seemed like the only thing he dared to do, and the man’s obstinacy against himself angered Erik. Drawing back enough to break his grip around his head, he looked up at him. He noticed how Charles, ever the inhibited Englishman, swallowed at the sight of his tears.

‘Why did you do that to me?’ he asked. ‘Was that what you planned...?’

‘I couldn’t tell you in advance,’ Charles admitted weakly. ‘If you were preconditioned, it would tell me nothing.’ He shifted a little, leaning closer, and Erik realised how pale he was. Now, he took hold of his shoulders and looking at him properly, he asked: ‘Why did it agitate you so, Erik?’ Erik shook his head, wanting to draw away again, from the man and the question, but the grip and the brilliant eyes kept him in place. ‘Why is that physical reminder of your trauma so important to you?’ He swallowed to steady his voice and forced himself to answer.

‘I need the reminder.’

‘Why do you need to be reminded of it?’ Charles persisted, and then rephrased the question: ‘What does it remind you of?’ Erik looked away and watched the stitches in his slipover instead. Once again Charles’ hand came to rest on his hair, and, surrendering, he rested his head against his chest. At least it meant that he did not have to look him in the eye. But he knew that, however unwillingly, he had already provided the answer by simply thinking it. He remembered too little from before the ghetto, he owned nothing of his parents’, and despite feeling that the past had grown closer the past few weeks, there were still gaping holes in his early memories. He had been deprived of his family, his faith, his language, his innocence. The tattoo was all he was left with. It was a reminder of his origin as much as his past, and he must never forget it. Revenge had sated some of his grief, but much of it lingered. Remembering was the least he could do.

Erik felt Charles leaning over him again. He spoke in little more than a whisper.

‘That number isn’t you.’

‘It is part of me,’ Erik answered. He had no wish to explain this, because he knew that Charles would not understand what could be born out of darkness. Feeling a new sense of purpose, he stood up abruptly, tearing himself from his friend’s ineffectual touch. ‘It cannot be undone, Charles,’ he told him sternly. ‘Thinking that it can be is arrogance, and trying to is an insult.’ Charles’ empty hands fell and clasped the armrests, lips thinning in realisation.

‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘I did not mean it to be that.’ They looked at each other for a few long moments, and then Charles averted his eyes. ‘I’ll leave,’ he announced. ‘I’ll...’ He tried to gather what to say, but then shook his head and simply turned. His progress through the overfurnished room was slow. It would be so easy to reach out and stop him, whether with his powers or simply by grabbing the wheelchair, and force a confrontation, to explain to him what he felt... Instead, Erik let him leave, not knowing why himself.

***

As Charles left Erik’s room and returned to his own, the discomfort of the encounter grew. Shame at his actions and disappointment at his inability to grasp the workings of his friend’s mind, despite being able to read it, bordered on physical nausea. He had pushed over a boundary which he had not realised was there. In his enthusiasm at helping his friend, he had harmed him instead, and on top of that he may well have harmed their friendship. When he had first had the idea of manipulating Erik’s mind in that one aspect, he had guessed that his reaction to the disappearance of the tattoo would be telling, but he had not imagined finding him collapsed on the floor with his arm scraped red. It had been reckless and unplanned of him. Even if the illusion had only lasted a few seconds, it had apparently distressed him deeply. _And now...?_ He could of course read his mind, but he felt that he had violated his trust enough for one evening.

His attempts at distraction before dinner failed. When he tried to settle down to read, he found that he could not bear to even open the book. Instead he ended up gazing out of the window, watching how dusk fell over the grounds. When Sean came to call him to dinner, he lingered and was the last to arrive. All through dinner and Hank’s gush over Magritte, he tried to catch Erik’s eye, but he did not answer his gaze, even if he did not actively seek to shun him. When Erik excused himself, Charles was still not certain what he felt.

When he returned to his room, he made another effort to read. He had meant to reread _The Once and Future King_ ever since T.H. White had died early that year, but now when he sat in front of the fireplace with it in his hands, he felt no wish whatsoever to read it. The bedroom seemed oddly oppressive, but he could not identify why. He considered moving over to his favourite armchair, the only chair left in the room. He had decided to keep it there, and on particularly lazy evenings, he would settle into it to read, and let himself drop off. Guilt had taken away even his will to do that. Finally, he opened the book in his lap and started turning the pages leading up to the first chapter. With uncharacteristic effort, he started the first paragraph.

Two sentences in, he was interrupted by a knock.

Feeling his stomach give an unpleasant jolt with anticipation, Charles looked up, knowing who was there.

‘Come in,’ he called. The door opened, and Erik lingered on the threshold, his face difficult to read.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘No,’ Charles said quickly, and Erik closed the door behind him. ‘Erik, I’m so sorry...’ He shook his head, and he fell silent.

‘I didn’t come to fight with you,’ he assured him.

‘Aren’t you angry with me?’ Charles asked. Erik came a little closer.

‘Not angry,’ he said, sounding a little uneasy nevertheless. ‘It was unpleasant, but I did give you my consent. It wasn’t what I had expected you to do, but nevertheless, you overstepped no boundary.’ Charles looked away, sensing that it was a half-truth. Nevertheless, he was grateful that Erik held no grudge. ‘Did you learn what you wanted from it?’

‘It was a silly idea,’ Charles sighed. ‘If I learned anything, it was that I can’t understand things to the extent I imagine I do.’

‘No,’ Erik said without prejudice. ‘I don’t imagine you would understand.’

‘I wish I did, though,’ he answered. ‘It’s almost as if...’ He paused to choose his words. ‘Don’t misunderstand me now, but it seems as if you value what happened to you.’ Erik looked at him in silence before asking:

‘Is that so odd?’ He sat down in the armchair, still with his gaze on him. ‘After all, it made me into the person I am now. Even painful experiences influence us.’

‘Yes,’ Charles answered half-heartedly, not convinced that it was all there was to it. He thought that the key lay in that most of the memories Erik had from his childhood was from after his family was driven from their home, so whatever could represent the time before that, even if it was a manifestation of the oppression he had suffered, he cherished. He also guessed that Erik’s continuing obsession with Schmidt, which admittedly had a very Oedipal dimension to it, was also part of it. With sudden clarity Charles remembered the thinly veiled accusation of how insulting it was to ignore what had happened to his family. The twinge of guilt grew stronger.

‘I’m not asking you to understand this,’ Erik said, ‘but it made me stronger. Much stronger.’

‘Yes,’ Charles answered hollowly. There was that preoccupation of strength, the same which manifested itself in discussing how even the youngest students could be used in combat. Even if he had left the Brotherhood behind him, Erik had not changed how he valued might. It made Charles wonder what he thought of him, who was confined to a wheelchair. For all the power of his mind, he could not do something so simple as walking. On the other hand, often when he touched Erik’s mind, he would sense guilt in him, but he had seldom articulated it properly. Charles was not certain if merely one thought in the myriad which made up the mind was enough to constitute an actual opinion; there was no way to tell if the guilt was true if he did not accept it himself.

‘Charles?’ He looked up, and realised that Erik was watching him.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’ Looking for an escape from his thoughts and the awkward conversation about Erik’s past, he said: ‘Would you like a drink?’ Erik looked uncertain.

‘I have some French tests I need to mark,’ he said. ‘I had planned to do it before dinner, but your poking around in my head got in the way.’ Charles opened his mouth to ask for forgiveness yet again, but the words did not come when Erik’s frown relaxed and he smiled. ‘I’d love a drink,’ he admitted. ‘We could both use it.’ He prepared to rise, but Charles waved at him to stay in the armchair as he put his book aside and flipped the breaks on the wheelchair. As he crossed to the drinks cabinet, he heard Erik pick up the book.

‘ _The Once and Future King_?’

‘Have you read it?’ Charles asked as he poured two glasses of scotch and placed them on a tray on his lap.

‘No,’ Erik admitted. How when Charles returned, he saw how he leafed through it experimentally. ‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a retelling of the myth of King Arthur,’ he explained and put the tray on the table between them. ‘It’s one of my favourite books.’ Erik took one of the glasses and raised it.

‘Your health.’ Charles mirrored him. The first sip of the alcohol spread a comfortable warmth through his body and dulled the guilt over his actions and his worry over Erik’s opinions. After taking another sip, he gestured at the book in Erik’s hand and asked:

‘Would you like to borrow it? I’ve been meaning to reread it for ages, but I’m not going to get around to it.’ He watched as Erik drew his fingers over the white-and-blue cover.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and there was something oddly sincere in his voice, as if glad for the opportunity.

‘How are your classes going?’ Charles asked. He was still desperately looking for something to talk about which would suppress his urge to apologise again, and the school seemed like neutral enough territory.

‘The French group is being slow,’ Erik said with a sigh. ‘I tried to make them study for the test by offering to teach them to swear in French, but...’ Charles laughed. For a moment, he thought that Erik’s cheeks flushed, but he dismissed it as imagination. ‘The German group is doing much better. I’m going to start them on some proper literature next time.’

‘Can I sit in on the lesson?’ he asked, struck by a sudden urge to see Erik teach. He looked at him for a moment, and then smiled.

‘Why not?’

‘Thank you,’ Charles said, smiling back and glancing at him. Erik returned the glance, and at once it felt as if Charles were falling into his eyes. The sound of his mind suddenly grew stronger, and as the sensation of his presence became almost overwhelming, as if he could see inside Charles’ mind instead of the other way around. All those unattainable things he wanted but did not dare to admit wanting, his longing and his love, rose and appeared for him to see. Charles almost wished he could break away, because Erik was leaning forward a little, and now he felt his fingers against his hand.

‘Charles.’ Breathlessly he glanced down as Erik’s fingers ghosted his skin and then circled his wrist tenderly. He could not remember noticing his hands before. They were more fine-boned than would be expected, and the skin was uneven where cold weather and violence had cracked it. They were the most beautiful pair of hands he had seen. His breathing was growing erratic with excitement, and all those old thoughts of closeness which they had not achieved returned to him. He had not wanted to heed them, because it did not seem right to want such things, but now they rose to the surface, and ignoring them was suddenly impossible. All he wanted was to kiss the man in front of him; what had been a latent longing was now a blazing craving. He felt an answering yearning in Erik - it was written in his eyes and spelt out in his thoughts.

Erik moved minutely, and as though he was nuzzled close to him, Charles imagined he could feel the rise and fall of his chest. A new, equally violent emotion took hold of him. _Fear_. What would he do if Erik leaned in and kissed him now? What _should_ he do? He wanted it more than anything, but at the same time, he did not want it at all - the thought of giving in to this urge repulsed him. Forfeiting control over his infatuation would mean throwing down all barriers, and not only would it devastate his peace of mind, and quite possibly put the school at risk. It would also ruin their friendship. Only an hour ago, he had been certain that he had harmed their connection through his wayward attempt to help, and so soon afterwards, here was another threat. If ideology could tear them apart, then romance would do it just as well. He could not afford to drive him away again, by whatever means - he meant too much. But there were other things which lay between them...

‘Did you sleep with Raven?’ He had not planned on asking, but as soon as he said it, he saw how the words hit home. His fingers released his wrist. Erik’s gaze spoke of his surprise at the question, and of the moment he had chosen for it, but it also showed his guilt plainly. Edging back into his chair, he said reservedly:

‘It meant more to her than it did to me.’

‘Is that supposed to calm me?’ Charles asked, his voice not entirely steady. ‘That you took advantage of her feelings?’

‘It was not like that,’ Erik told him, shaking his head. ‘She was very lonely.’ He broke off and looked away. When he spoke, it sounded like he was revising what he had said. ‘ _I_ was very lonely.’ Charles looked at him, as the memories of the encounters manifested themselves. _The feel of her scales under his fingers - her flesh around him - the rise and fall of her breasts - the smell of her hair. The sound of her voice as she calls him by his mutant name. Knowing that she would turn herself into anyone he wants her to be. Deliberately only sleeping with her when she was herself, because he cannot ask. The way she laughs, without restraint or heed to convention..._

Charles looked away too, disturbed at having felt what it was like to have sex with his own sister. Then again, it was a kind of feeling he had not felt for well over two years, and one he could no longer feel himself. Erik, ironically enough, had seen to that.

‘Still,’ he said disparagingly. Erik looked at him searchingly, and asked:

‘Are you trying to defend your sister’s honour? Surely you know that she would not want that.’

‘Yes, she always was headstrong,’ Charles sighed. A spark lit in Erik’s eye.

‘Why do you speak of her like that, as if she were some unruly pet dog?’ He bit his lip, wishing Erik would understand.

‘Before all this - before the CIA and her leaving - she needed protecting,’ he explained, failing not to sound offended at the other man’s criticism. ‘She never understood it, but...’

‘Why would she need it, then?’ Erik asked, leaning forward again, but where there had been tenderness before, there was now anger. ‘You caged her in, Charles - you kept her a prisoner within her own body.’

‘What else could I do?’ Charles retorted and took a mouthful of the scotch. The sting of the drink shot through his nose and sinuses, making him feel momentarily giddy. For a moment, he thought that there was something in Erik’s voice which sounded almost guilty, but he blamed it on the alcohol.

‘Her honour did not have to guarded...’

‘It wasn’t just _that_ ,’ he exclaimed. ‘If she lost control for even a moment...’

‘Yes, of course,’ Erik said sarcastically. ‘She might have offended someone’s sensitivities.’

‘What would they have done to her if they saw her in her blue form, Erik?’ he asked and gestured towards the window. ‘People out there wouldn’t accept her if they saw her like that - they would hurt her...’

‘Their bigoted opinions should not matter,’ Erik announced through gritted teeth.

‘But they’re a fact!’ Charles almost shouted and banged his fist against his armrest. ‘You can’t just ignore the standing social order - it will have an effect on people...’

‘Why should we have to heed it?’ Erik pressed. ‘If it does not embrace or even accept us, if they will not let us be part of their world, why should we try? We should not passively wait to be let into their society. It does not serve any of our interests, if we cannot be ourselves. If that is so, we are better off forming our own society...’

‘Erik, I don’t understand you,’ Charles said, staring at him in confusion. ‘Do you never feel shame? Don’t you ever feel a wish to fit in, and not be singled out? Don’t you long to be a part of something? Or has victimisation become an end in itself for you?’ Erik looked at him, anger rising in his eyes, but it remained restrained.

‘You hate your own kind, Charles,’ he simply said. ‘You hide, and you are not even honest about being a coward.’ Charles looked away, startled at the blunt accusation, because he knew that Erik did not mean about mutants anymore, at least not exclusively. He had sensed what he felt for him, and now he had the audacity to use his hesitation as a weapon in the argument.

‘I’m not a coward,’ he said finally, still not looking up.

‘Tell me why you are not,’ Erik challenged him. Charles rubbed his forehead, and could not think of a single reason why not. Perhaps he was right, then - perhaps sitting in this school, keeping the children from the real world, was an act of cowardice. But what was the alternative? Realising the answer to that was, he looked Erik in the eye and answered him, managing to keep his voice almost completely steady.

‘I have no choice,’ he explained. ‘That bullet you redirected made sure that, mutant or not, I would be an outcast from society. The best I can do is to teach others how to face the world which, yes, as you say, hates them. But what is your excuse?’ Erik stared back at him. ‘You lived the kind of life you advocate, but now here you are, teaching alongside the coward. Why?’ They looked at each other for a long, painful moment, and then Erik got to his feet.

‘You know why,’ he said as he looked down at him. The accusations were gone; left was only pity. ‘Sometimes there are things more important than society.’ Picking up the book, he gave him a nod and said: ‘Thank you for the novel.’ As he passed, he rested his hand on his shoulder for a moment. Then the contact was broken, and Charles heard him leave.

***

Charles was dancing. His arm was around Moira’s waist, and she followed his movements. He could feel her skirt sway against his leg.

‘Why won’t you look at me, Charles?’ Moira asked, their cheeks touching as they turned.

‘I am looking at you,’ he answered, but there was something in the corner of his eye. It distracting him, but he could not seem to focus on it, however much he tried.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Raven. As she pressed closer to him, he saw the figure watching them, Erik’s pale eyes following their progress with tightlipped disappointment...

The dream snapped in half, and Charles found himself in bed, staring up into the canopy. There had been no moment of waking, only one state being replaced by another. He fumbled for the light-switch on the bedside lamp; the alarm clock showed the time as a little past two. Sighing, he sunk back against his pillows, hand over his eyes. He was wide awake - there was no way now to go back to sleep, probably for several hours. He wondered if this would be an isolated sleepless night, or if his insomniac tendencies had been stirred by his worry. Whatever the answer, there was no reason to stay in bed, so he put on his dressing-gown and drew himself into the wheelchair. He might as well work on setting some essay questions for his advanced physics class. Halfway to his desk, he realised that he had left the papers he needed in the study. He was not fond of leaving his room in his bed-clothes, but dressing felt ridiculous. Instead, he took a pair of slippers from a drawer and put them on, pulling up each leg in turn by the knee to reach his feet.

The mansion was full of dreams. As Charles passed through the corridors, he felt them brush against his mind. He could sense the surreal realities of each one, the confused horror of the nightmares, the unattainable desire of the guilty dreams. When he reached the ground floor, however, he sensed another waking mind. Curious, he turned from the path to his study and headed for the library instead. Already when he opened the door, he could see the light inside, and knew the identity of the reader. As he approached the pool of light around the armchair, he saw the tiny figure, legs drawn up close to his body under the nightgown, the hair, which was long enough to start to curl, hanging down over the pages of the book.

‘What are you doing up at this time of night, Jason?’ The child jumped, looking into the darkness with vivid eyes. ‘It’s alright,’ Charles added and rolled into the circle of light. ‘It’s just me. What are you reading?’ Jason angled the book so that he could see the title. ‘ _The Battle of Somme_?’ Charles said, frowning, and then noticed the book pile beside him. ‘What’s this?’ Squinting through the gloom, he read the titles - _Accounts of the Thirty-Years War, The Great Indian Mutiny 1857-1858, The American Civil War, Nothing New on the Western Front_. ‘You’re fascinated by war, aren’t you, Jason?’ he asked and looked him in the eyes. He looked back, trying to form the words. At least it took less time now than a few weeks ago.

‘My father used to tell me stories.’

‘About war?’ Jason nodded. ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’ Now, he smiled.

‘Why would it?’

‘Well, it’s a terrible thing,’ Charles said. ‘Why does it interest you so?’

‘It scares other people,’ he answered with a shrug.

‘But not you?’ he pressed, and then remembered something. ‘When I first met you, you made an illusion of a no-man’s-land from the Great War. Is that why you read those books?’ He gestured towards the pile. ‘For inspiration?’ Jason did not have to answer it to tell him that it was true. ‘Why are you intent on scaring people like that?’

‘I need to be able to defend myself.’

‘But there’s no one here who wants to harm you,’ Charles insisted.

‘There are always people who want to harm me,’ Jason answered. Charles suppressed a sigh and leaned forward to look into his mismatched eyes.

‘Jason, I’m not your enemy. I want to help you.’ The light around them changed, and when Charles looked around, they were no longer in the library. Once again, he found himself in the no-man’s-land, but this time, it was different. ‘Now, this...’ he murmured, and could not help but smile. ‘This is rather extraordinary, Jason. Last time, that was based on photographs and descriptions, but this... We’re inside Otto Dix’s imagination.’ There was no colour in this world, only the grey of edgings. The horse carcasses, despite looking real, still bore the marks of a pencil. The edge of the trenches was built up by bones and roots, traced by the artist’s ink pen, their expressionism gruesome. The soldiers who occasionally looked up over the edge looked inhuman, lumbering four-fingered creatures with no faces, only staring glass eyes and the filter snouts of respirators. Eager to explore this illusion, Charles tried to turn the wheels of the wheelchair, but they would not budge, having sunken into the mud. Jason, looking out of place in his long locks and nightgown, a speck of colour in a grey world, smiled.

‘Why don’t you just walk?’ he asked. His voice seemed stronger than usual within the illusion.

‘I can’t,’ Charles told him. Jason shrugged.

‘I decide what you can and can’t do here.’ Then he took told of his arm and pulled. Charles called out, certain that he would fall facedown into the filth, but suddenly his legs jerked to life and his feet connected with the ground. He stared down at them in shock, realising that they were really supporting him. The grey water, mixed with blood, soaked through his slippers, but he could feel the cold and the wet against his feet. Even if he knew that it was just Jason planting a suggestion and making his brain imagine things, it felt so much more real than when he dreamed of walking. Experimentally, he took a few steps, relishing the squelch it made and the way the mud was caking around his ankles.

He realised now that Jason was simply enabling an image Charles had of himself, rather than creating another, but he was certain that with more training, he could influence people’s perception of themselves within an illustration.

‘This power of yours is astounding,’ he said aloud. ‘You could do so much good, Jason.’ When there was no answer, he looked down at Jason, who looked back, tight-lipped. ‘You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? Help people?’

‘Can I trust them?’ he answered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘People. I don’t think that you can ever trust people,’ Jason said with a shrug and then pointed behind him. ‘Look over there.’ Charles turned. Over the trench, a brownish mist was forming, drifting with the wind towards them. Then the soldiers came over the top, respirators rendering them faceless. They ran through the poison cloud, brandishing grenades and guns. Panic twisted his heart.

‘Jason, stop it!’ Charles shouted. The cloud reached them before the soldiers did, and the mustard gas burned his lungs. ‘ _Jason_!’

Then suddenly it was over. The cold and the wet was gone, and so was the sensation in his legs. He was still sitting in his wheelchair - when coming to, he was afraid for a moment that the illusion would have made him move in reality, and he would find himself collapsed away from it. In an attempt to regain some of the dignity he felt that he had lost, he pulled himself up a little and tried to stop breathing so heavily. Even if the pain of the poison had been completely mental, the illusion had felt sufficiently real to unsettle him. Jason was still sitting curled up in the couch, smiling sweetly.

‘Don’t do that again,’ Charles told him grimly. ‘To anyone. Promise me that.’ Jason rolled his eyes, but then nodded. ‘No, answer me properly.’

‘I promise,’ Jason whispered.

‘Good,’ Charles sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. ‘Now, off you go to bed. You have lessons in the morning.’ The added mental incentive was probably what did it, because suddenly oddly obedient, Jason nodded and stood.

‘Good night, Professor.’ Charles offered him a small smile and then waved to him to leave. He stayed still until he sensed the boy making his way up the stairs towards his dormitory.

When he finally reached his study, he found the papers he had been looking for, lying on the desk. For several minutes, he concentrated solely on setting potential essay questions, but the encounter with Jason lingered in his thoughts, and to push them aside, he instead took up his sketches on what he had dubbed the Danger Room, which would be able to simulate any combat situation for training purposes. He had run many of his ideas by Hank, who seemed excited about it, but they would probably need to install their own generators not to cut the power to all of Westchester County when running it. It would probably mean taking out the floors between two, if not three, floors, and even Charles in his renewal frenzy was a little hesitant to do that yet. There was always the possibility to put it in one of the bunkers, which would be stable and sound-proof enough, but the plans were still in their infancy.

Suddenly, Charles looked up, aware of a presence outside. The mind was familiar, more familiar than any other mind. On the other side of the French windows, hidden by the heavy curtains, Erik stood. It should not surprise him. Even if Charles considered himself to be an insomniac, compared to Erik he slept like a log. He realised now that Erik often took to circling the mansion when he could not sleep, as if he were guarding it. Now he had stopped in his stride, and Charles felt how he recalled their last conversation, memories tinged with the disappointment that he had seen in his eyes in his dream. An urge to reach out and draw back the curtains, to see him and call his attention, to speak to him and this time not make him disappointed seized Charles, but he stopped his hand. The sound of feet was heard against the stone was heard, as he turned and continued. Charles lingered, feeling a pang of sadness at the chance which had passed.


	4. Chapter 4

If there was one thing Sean could not stand, it was early mornings. He had thought he would get used to it - up at seven, shower and dress, get breakfast for the kids ready, wake them up, have breakfast himself. It was still a routine he abhorred. The only days he felt properly awake before ten o’clock were the days when he had breakfast with the kids, partly because half of them were just as tired, and partly because the other half may get into their head to throw cereals or something, and Hank would shout at him if he let that happen. All other days, he had breakfast with the adults. It was a grueling experience, for the most part; Hank never had sense not to discuss philosophy or science or world news that early, and the professor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, happily joined in. Alex was not particularly fond of mornings either and knew not to talk to Sean before around nine, and as for Erik, his behaviour at breakfast was among the few things about him which was tolerable. He was mostly content to sit opposite the professor and read some book as he poked his eggs and tomatoes, always letting Sean have his helping of bacon. Extra bacon was certainly not enough to make him stop disliking him intensely, simply as a matter of principle, but it was enough to placate him until he had any reason to be suspicious about his motives.

Today had seemed at first to be a relatively good morning. Alex was keeping the kids company, Hank was busy looking out of the window, lost in thought, and Erik was lost in his book. When the professor turned up, obviously mulling over some concern, which made his eyes light up as if with fever, Sean knew that there was a deep conversation approaching. As he poured his tea, Professor Xavier said:

‘Help me understand something. Why are people so fascinated by war?’

‘Like tin soldiers?’ Sean said, propping his head up with his hand. ‘It’s exciting, I guess. Tactics and stuff.’

‘I was rather thinking actual wars, not arbitrary representations of them on a table,’ the professor answered kindly.

‘A romanticised view on war is certainly not uncommon, historically speaking,’ Hank observed, growing animated. ‘In ancient times, it was a rite of passage. A man had not proved himself before he had been to war. War is said to bring out the best and the worst in people - bravery, strength, steadfastness, but also anger, destructiveness, cowardice...’

‘And we seldom speak of those worst traits,’ Charles finished, looking concerned. ‘A father who tells stories of war to his son will never speak of the horrors he had witnessed, only the comradeship and the excitement.’

‘Society does little to dissuade it,’ Hank replied. ‘There are still voices crying out for an attack of the Soviet Union, despite the fear of retaliation.’

‘People don’t think of nuclear war as war,’ Erik said, speaking up for the first time, but without looking up from his book. Sean felt like he had lost his only ally in his refusal to discuss serious matters during breakfast.

‘It’s so mechanised that it doesn’t count,’ Hank continued, ‘and that has removed the heroism of war...’

‘But it hasn’t been possible to be a hero since before the Great War,’ Charles interjected, something of that frenzied worry back in his eyes. ‘Then the world was presented with the reality of war. People realised that there was no heroism to be found in that.’ He paused, seeming to consider something. ‘But despite that, we still obsess about wars - past wars, ongoing wars, potential wars. There are pictures of children covered in napalm all over the front page of our papers, and we still do not condemn it, we still do not say it’s _wrong_...’ Sean stared at him, surprised at his sudden passion. Then he looked down at his plate of bacon. Appetite gone, he pushed it aside.

‘Mankind does not learn from her mistakes,’ Hank said diplomatically and passed the professor the plate with eggs, which was enough to make him drop the discussion.

***

When they broke up from breakfast, Erik lingered in the door, waiting for Charles.

‘Are you still coming to my German class?’ he asked, an expectant look in his eye.

‘Of course - if it’s alright with you,’ Charles answered. Well out in the corridor, Erik walked silently beside him, the book he had been reading securely clutched in his hand. Charles was just considering asking him to speak his mind, when he said:

‘People obsess about war because they feel they’ve missed out.’

‘Missed out?’ he repeated.

‘They wanted to have been there - to have fought for freedom or the country or whatever other bogus cause the politicians claimed the war was about,’ Erik answered, sounding suddenly disgusted. ‘They may have been too young, too old, or just unable to be there. They imagine that it was worth seeing. Even if they understand the true nature of war, they want to be able to be able to tell people about how it should have been.’ Charles considered this and asked:

‘Do you feel you missed out?’ Erik shook his head.

‘I got my fair share of action. You?’

‘Well...’ Charles thought it through, and realised that when he was younger, he had felt jealous at the older boys who had been drafted. He remembered how his stepbrother Cain had showed off his army uniform before he had gone overseas. The events on the Cuban beach had put the topic of war into a harsh context. ‘I did once,’ he admitted. ‘Now, I feel rather glad to be out of it all.’ Erik pressed his lips together, as if in a smile, but Charles sensed the spike of guilt within him. ‘Freedom isn’t a bogus cause, though, Erik,’ he observed.

‘It has been for a long time,’ Erik sighed and opening the classroom door for him. ‘Why this sudden contemplation on war?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ he told him sotto voce and entered the classroom. He nodded to the students who were already present and settled at the very back of the class, where he would not disturb the students. Still, Erik’s trepidation at his presence was noticeable. Even if he thought it would be unlike him to give into nerves, Charles reached out and touched his mind momentarily to calm him. Erik must have realised that the sudden peace was his doing, because he looked his way and smiled crookedly. Then, tearing his gaze off him, he cleared his throat, and the students, who had been chattering away happily a moment before, fell completely silent.

‘I hope you all remembered to bring your books,’ he said, sounding stern. ‘Turn to page 92.’ There was a rustle of paper as the class obeyed. As it died down, Erik started walking back and forth, each footstep measured, as he spoke. ‘I see no reason to start you off with anything less than the best piece of German poetry which has ever been penned,’ he explained. ‘The poem you see here, by Goethe, is often referred to as _Wanderers Nachtlied_ , but its true title is _Ein Gleiches_.’ He looked over the class. Understanding the implicit question, a few uncertain hands were raised.

‘Yes - Ororo?’

‘Does it mean “A similar one”?’

‘Quite right,’ Erik said, nodding. ‘And the other title. Remy?’

‘Eum... “Wanderer’s...’

‘That’s the easy bit,’ the teacher said and looked at him piercingly. ‘ _Nacht_?’

‘“Night”.. something.’

‘ _Lied_ ,’ Erik said sharply. ‘It’s not a difficult word. In fact, it was on your vocab list last week.’ When no-one answered, he slapped his hand in the book to indicate the piece they were about to read. ‘What is this, Remy?’

‘A poem.’

‘Or...?’

‘A, eum, song?’

‘Yes. A song - _Lied_ means “song”.’ Leaning against the desk, he continued voice suddenly milder: ‘I will read it to you - make sure to follow in the text. After that you will have time to translate it, and then we will discuss it.’ He looked over the class, as if challenging anyone to interrupt his reading. Next moment, the sternness was completely gone, and he started reading in a calm, musical baritone.

_‘Über allen Gipfeln_  
Ist Ruh,  
In allen Wipfeln  
Spürest du  
kaum einen Hauch;  
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.  
Warte nur, balde  
Ruhest du auch.’ 

The poem sounded like breathing; the longer verses a greedy inhalation, the shorter verses a calm exhalation. His reading of it was slow, and in Erik’s mind, Charles could feel the echo of those words. They meant something to him beyond the words itself. As he read the poem out loud, it was as if it were his own breath - it became a part of his essence. When he finished, the silence remained unbroken, until he closed the book and said, his voice still subdued:

‘Read through it again and make a translation, without talking amongst yourselves.’ The children obeyed slowly, but their reluctance did not seem to be because of having to do the work, but because they felt that there was something in the air which should not be disturbed by taking apart and translating that which what had sounded nigh magical. Charles watched their progress from the back of the classroom, and how Erik walked between the desks, inspecting their work and telling them words they did not know. Finally he returned to head of the classroom.

‘Let’s translate one line each, and the ones who don’t get a line to translate will start the discussion. Betty - you start.’

‘ “Over all the roof tops...”’

‘... “There is peace”...’

‘ “Over all the tree tops...”’

‘ “...you notice...”’

‘“... barely a breeze.”

‘“The little birds are quiet in the forest.”’

‘“Just wait, soon”...’

‘“You too will rest.”’

Another silence fell, as the children felt the words of the poem settle. Then Ororo put her hand up.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about dying,’ she said. Now Erik did smile.

‘Tell me why,’ he said and leaned against the desk.

Charles watched what followed with almost morbid fascination. Never had he seen children as young as these discuss death, or listen so readily to ideas of the awaited, welcome death, of how death was merely resting. Erik spoke of _Sturm und Drang_ and Romanticism; one of the older students asked if the poet had been unhappy for real, or if it was just for show. They talked about how _Hauch_ can mean “breeze”, but also “breath”, and the meaning of the titles. The discussion was still going on when the clock struck and Erik called off the lesson, obviously with some regret.

The oddly elated feeling the poetry had left Charles with still lingered after lunch, when, with a knock, Erik entered his study.

‘Is this a bad time?’ he asked, but Charles shook his head.

‘None better - do come in,’ he said. As Erik took his seat opposite him, he asked:

‘How did you enjoy the lesson?’

‘It was... different,’ Charles said slowly. Erik raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Good, I should think,’ he admitted. ‘You’re rather harsh on them sometimes, you know. They’ll do as you say without your being so...’

‘German?’ Erik suggested, and Charles laughed. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘And otherwise...?’ Charles joined his hands together and looked out of the window before meeting his eye again.

‘You’re very passionate about what you teach them,’ he observed. ‘That makes a true difference.’

‘And you and Hank aren’t passionate?’

‘Well...’ Charles tried to choose his words right. ‘It seems to me that your passion for the subject overrides everything else. You did give a poem about death to a group of children to analyse.’

‘Did you think that is inappropriate?’ Erik asked. Charles hesitated, not certain.

‘No, not really,’ he settled for. ‘I think that it’ll do them good to discuss difficult things too. As long as it’s done sensitively, and I think you did that very well.’ Erik smiled at him.

‘You don’t expect me to be sensitive?’

‘You’re full of surprises, my friend,’ he said, answering his smile. They looked at each other for a moment, until Erik looked away.

‘You were going to explain your questions at breakfast,’ he reminded him.

‘Yes,’ Charles said, sighing. He had almost managed to forget that, and did not feel keen to discuss it. ‘It’s Jason. I found him in the library last night, reading up on various wars. I understand part of his motivation, and I had hoped that some other part might throw better light on it.’

‘What part do you understand?’ Erik wondered.

‘He wants to find ways of scaring people with illusions,’ Charles explained, not trying to hide his worry. ‘So he reads about war. He claimed that he does it because he knows people are scared of war, but he claims he isn’t. And there’s something else too.’ Erik frowned. ‘I think I was wrong, when I said that he wasn’t a telepath. I think that he must have some degree of latent mind-reading skills.’

‘How come?’ Charles swallowed to compose himself. He had not thought about that he had to explain what he had seen until now.

‘He made me see a gas attack, from the Great War,’ he explained. ‘My father was blinded by mustard gas at Ypres. It feels like too much of a coincidence. Jason can’t have known that.’

‘She devised an illusion specifically to scare you, you mean?’ Erik asked.

‘Yes, that is precisely what he does,’ Charles said. ‘It may be that he’s not aware of doing it. Quite possibly, it rather manifests itself as a kind of empathy. Perhaps even specifically, so that he will know what will alarm someone particularly.’ Erik stroked his chin, thinking.

‘You’re saying she is dangerous?’

‘I hesitate to call a student dangerous,’ Charles answered. ‘But... he has no scruples about trying to scare _me_. He is... unreliable.’ He hesitated, realising suddenly that if Jason had the power to draw people’s fears out of their heads, Erik was in a very vulnerable position indeed. ‘Has he ever made you see anything?’

‘No - not that I’m aware of, at least, and by what you’ve said, it sounds like I would have,’ Erik said. ‘If she can do what you say she can, then she must be able to convince her victim that the illusion is true.’

‘In theory, yes,’ Charles said. ‘I think that with training he could do much more in terms of influencing people’s perceptions of themselves.’ He consciously did not mention that he had been able to walk in the illusion - he found that almost as unsettling as the gas attack, but in an altogether different way. ‘His powers aren’t particularly honed yet. He wouldn’t be able to keep an illusion together for longer than a few minutes, I think, so there’s no risk that he would “trap” anyone.’ Sighing, he admitted: ‘I’ve neglected him. I should have addressed many of these issues weeks ago. Perhaps I’ve been too lax.’

‘Are you planning to make her start dress as a boy, then?’ Erik asked, and Charles found his gaze oddly sharp. Suddenly realising it, he said:

‘All the others mentioned that as soon as they saw him, but not you. Doesn’t it bother you?’

‘Should it?’ Erik asked, the tone of his voice challenging him. Charles opened his mouth, trying to think of an answer.

‘It’s a medical condition,’ he finally said.

‘How?,’ Erik answered. ‘It doesn’t seem to hurt her.’

‘It was certainly part of the reason to his father’s treatment of him.’

‘If we are to define anything which narrow-minded fools will persecute people for as “wrong”, we would end up with a very narrow definition of “right” - not to mention a very misleading one,’ Erik answered levelly. ‘It seems to me that the other children barely notice it, so it’s not hurting her here. You should keep that in mind yourself.’ Charles sighed, half in defeat and half in admiration. Perhaps all that training in psychology sometimes served to cloud his vision rather than open it up.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘What harm does it do? If he’s happy like that, then it’s just to our advantage.’ When he looked up, Erik smiled at him.

‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ he said. Charles smiled back and, suddenly sick of the formality of the situation, rounded the desk.

‘How many times have we played chess since you came back, Erik? Surely not more than a handful?’

‘If that,’ Erik answered and rose. ‘Running this place must take time.’

‘Yes, too much time,’ Charles said. ‘We’re probably still understaffed... But Hank has stopped complaining about it since you got here. I don’t know what he imagines I’m going to do if he does - employ Emma Frost as a teacher or something.’ Erik barked a laugh. ‘It’s a horrific thought, isn’t it?’

‘Very - I wouldn’t want to know what she would teach the children.’ Then, changing the subject, he crossed to the piano at the far wall. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Has that piano just been left there, or do you play?’ As he spoke, he lifted the lid, almost reverently.

‘Well, I used to,’ Charles said and followed him. ‘Now... well, I don’t.’ Erik looked up from the keys, where his hand was resting.

‘Why?’

‘I can’t use the pedals,’ he explained, feeling resigned. ‘There’s no soul in the music without them. It just hasn’t felt worth keeping it up.’ A shadow passed over Erik’s face. Then his concentration returned to the piano, and he played a chord.

‘Not as out of tune as I’d expected,’ he said, listening to the lingering sound.

‘Well, I couldn’t let it fall into disrepair,’ Charles said, watching in delight how used Erik’s fingers seemed to the ivory. ‘You play?’

‘I’m probably a little rusty, but...’ He surveyed the keyboard once again, and then moved the piano stool to the side, sitting down on it. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘What?’ Charles asked, confounded. Erik cocked his head.

‘Let’s play.’

‘But I said...’ He broke off as Erik put his feet on the pedals.

‘Technically, I could just control the metal in them, but when it comes to music, it feels like cheating,’ he said and smiled. Charles hesitated for another moment, then approached. The left edge of the stool grated against the hub of the right wheel, and in order to reach the pedals well, Erik sat so close that their arms almost touched. Experimentally, Charles played a few cords, trying to decide what to play.

‘How well do you know your Beethoven?’

‘Reasonably,’ Erik answered.

‘How about his _Appassionata_?’ he suggested, and Erik nodded his consent. Charles poised his fingers and breathed in, envisaging what he was about to play.

The first beats were hesitant, a frightened prey picking its way through the forest. The dark notes of the pursuer were only just present, but then, in a flurry of musical scampering feet, the prey took off down the piano keyboard, running straight into the net of the hunter. The scene repeated, high tones mirrored in the low, and then the landscape changed into the discordant minds of unhappy lovers. Closing his eyes, Charles let his fingers climb upwards to the very heights of strained nerves, down to the deep realms of despair. Up and down he moved, his body bending as he reached for the most extreme notes, and every time he leaned to the right, his shoulder brushed against Erik’s. The way he used the pedals was unlike how Charles would have - while he had been restrained with them, Erik combined and exchanged them, and the passion of the music deepened. Charles had the odd feeling of that they were not, as Erik had said when he first arrived, two whole men in each other’s presence, but one. Their cooperation verged on symbiosis - they were conjoined twins controlling different parts of a common body. At times, the piece ground almost to a complete stop before launching into another windswept frenzy, and during those stops, he became aware of how Erik had placed his hand on his armrest, as if to assert that connection between them. As though it were his own anxieties dictating the music rather than the notes he had memorised long ago, he threw himself into it one last time, playing with such force that his hair fell from behind his ear and he could feel the sinews of his hands strain. Then, as if the piece was thoroughly exhausted, it slowed down and disappeared. Charles let the keys rise under his fingers, and the notes only lingered as Erik kept them there. He waited for him to prompt him to play the second movement, but there was only silence, so intending to ask, he turned to him, and found him staring straight into Erik’s eyes.

The look in them made him fall silent, and suddenly he was the prey he had heard in the music, frozen and at another’s mercy. It felt as if something shifted - suddenly they slid into focus for each other. The wave of raw, abrupt perception bordered on the painful. Charles opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Erik acted first, leaning in. For the shortest of moments, they hovered in uncertainty, and then their lips met.

The first brush was soft and hesitant. Erik drew back and looked at him. Charles could not remember his eyes ever looking like that before, as if a door beyond them had opened. In them was written the question, _are you going to push me away again, as you did last time, with your questions?_

 _No,_ Charles thought, sending the answer into his mind. Not this time, my friend. Surrendering, he leaned in again. As they kissed, slowly but deeply, he tried to memorise this moment - how the hairs which had grown since Erik shaved that morning scratched his skin, how he tasted of tea and cigarettes, how his hand brushed his neck to keep him there, how Erik tried to fasten the moment in his memory too.

Erik’s hand came up to rest on his cheek, and their lips slipped apart. They drew back a little, breathing heavily, looking at each other in surprise. Charles felt the hand on his cheek stroke his skin, a thumb tracing his lips experimentally, and then fall to his arm. He first thought that after that, Erik had drawn it back, but when he looked down, he saw that he had placed it on his knee. Desperate to feel his touch, he placed his hand above it and looked at him again. Slowly, as if his courage to keep away had failed him, Erik moved closer again.

A sharp knock was heard, and the door opened. Their hands drew back as if they had been burned, and Erik leapt from the stool, hands clasped behind his back.

‘Lunch,’ Alex said, poking his head around the door.

‘Thank you, Alex,’ Erik said and left the study. Charles did not heed him, but tried playing the start of the second movement, its tones _andante_. The music sounded flat without Erik at his side, helping him.

‘Coming, professor?’ Alex asked. Letting his hands fall, Charles looked at him.

‘Yes, of course.’ He followed a little behind the others. At one point he was aware that Erik looked over his shoulder at him, but he dared not meet his eye.

***

Charles’ unrest remained through the day. At dinner, Erik was not present, but ate with the children, which made him pity him, considering that Sean and Alex referred to that task as “avert-the-food-fights-duty”. Through the meal, the worry Charles felt started to crystallise, and after dinner, he excused himself, leaving the ground floor quickly when he sensed Erik’s thoughts straying to him. He retreated to his room, locking the door behind him. The metal would not keep Erik out, he knew, but he would respect it nevertheless.

Charles had been unwilling to address the issue ever since he met Erik, yet the attraction between them was unmistakable. He guessed that non-telepaths were given the benefit of the doubt when it came to whether or not one’s feelings were requited. Knowing probably saved an awful lot of time and worry; if someone had no interest, lingering on that infatuation was useless. However, feeling an answering attraction and affection did not necessarily mean that one simply acted on it. Now, it made him feel out of control - had this attachment was only present from his side, he could have kept it under wraps, but now, there was the potential that Erik would act, as he indeed had. Charles’ fear was not the common person’s worry of rejection, but the dread of having his own complexes revealed.

Moving over to his armchair to contemplate his problems, he tried to analyse his own responses. He, unlike Erik, had never been particularly comfortable with his bisexuality. Oxford was tolerant enough, but he remembered the McCarthy witch-hunts, where homophiles were as much a target as would-be communists. Fear was not stopped by water, and the American worries had spread across the Atlantic, to Britain where the harsh post-war years needed a scapegoat. Charles was pretty enough to be taken for queer even without doing anything; his first year in Oxford, a few townies had had a good mind to beat him up simply on account of his looks, and it was only after a fair bit of psychic dissuasion they let him go. After the incident, Raven had insisted on following him everywhere as a kind of inverted chaperone for the next few months, claiming that she was ready to snog him whenever trouble seemed near.

By that time, Raven had known about it all for years; when he was fourteen, Charles had confided in her about a crush on the gardener’s son. She had been delighted at the confidence, but had used it, as everything else, as a reason to amiably tease him. He had not minded, but now he thought that that extra reminder of that it could be seen as wrong, along with the reminders from priests and teachers, that it without doubt was wrong, not to mention his grim stepfather’s suspicions, managed to find growing-ground in him, against his better judgement. By the time he started university, he viewed his own tendencies with a combination of embarrassment and indistinct self-disgust. Raven had sometimes tried to discuss men with him, but he had refused, not wanting to acknowledge it. Now he could almost hear her hushed, excited voice as she dug her elbow into his side at the pub. _What about him? Do you think he’s dishy? Go on, if you do, buy him a drink._ She had meant well, but she had never understood how problematic his feelings about it were. It was only when Raven was not there that he acted on those desires, and it took quite a lot of liquid courage before he dared even then. He had never had a proper relationship with a man, only ill-defined flings where both were too scared of the law and of intolerance to become too invested.

His attempts at relationships with women had been marginally more successful, but in many ways more complicated. His psychoanalytic training made it glaringly apparent to him that it came down to his difficulties with his mother. He never seemed to be able to trust them completely, always awaiting that same betrayal that she had committed. Besides, there was something a little intimidating about the naked female body. The insight that here was a creature capable of creating life within herself made him feel oddly inadequate, and terrified that he might accidentally add to that cycle of generation which was a microversion of what he studied. At least there were French letters, but it did seem like a hassle, and he felt guilty when he reflected that with a man, there was no need for that worry.

Every one of those few relationships had left him feeling oddly out of place. People assumed complete honesty between lovers, but for him, that had never been possible. Only Raven had known about his mind-reading abilities, and he had never felt able to tell anyone else. How could he explain that power without being branded either a liar or a freak? That was where Erik was different. With him, there had never been any secrets. In return for learning everything about him from the moment they met, he had been completely honest towards him. Here was a man - a fascinating, passionate, handsome man - who knew him and was aware of what he was, and he still felt a burning affection from him. He felt that he had found his equal, someone who understood and accepted him.

What then had made him stall that summer when they had recruited for the CIA? His discomfort with admitting his attraction to another man had certainly been part of it. He had also found Erik particularly hard to read; he was rather unhinged, and Charles worried that Erik’s trauma may have unforeseen consequences. Besides, their task had been important, and half of its importance to Charles was its importance to Erik. Finding Shaw would be impossible without the CIA, and to have the CIA on their side they needed to show themselves loyal to the cause. To be revealed as a bisexual would undermine that loyalty very effectively.

Now, the CIA was out of the picture, but he still had duties. Since his recovery, Charles had been completely committed to the school. There had been nothing on his mind but his dream of a better world for mutants. He had worked every waking minute for it, to the extent that Hank had made a habit of telling him that he (“a man in his condition”) should not overwork himself. Ignoring the implication that he was a shut-in and should act like one, he pressed on, pouring all his energy into his school. Then a month ago, Erik’s return had turned that world order upside-down. Even if he still spent most of his time on the school, there was suddenly something else craving his attention. For the first time in these two years, he felt once again that he had a friend. He was fond of Hank, Alex and Sean, but in reality, they were his students as much as the children were. He missed Raven, who, as she had been so keen on pointing out, had been his only friend most of his life, and Moira, who had been there for him when she would have been in her right to disappear. But most of all he had missed Erik. It had been a raw, grating longing, and having their young friendship so cruelly ripped away from him had hurt almost as much as losing the use of his legs had. He had made do by pushing it to the side for so long, but now Erik was back, and he had made his intentions perfectly clear today after their piano session.

But the school was still a fact. A headmaster should not be involved with his teachers, even if the teachers were female. What would people say if word came out that he had an indecent relationship with a fellow male teacher? The pupils would hate them both. The parents who cared about their sons and daughters would take them home and put them in usual schools, where their mutant abilities would make them the target of the bullies. The state would get wind of the scandal and close down the school, quite possibly bringing both him and Erik to court in the process. The orphans and the abandoned children would be taken into care, where their nightmare would start again. The other teachers would be left homeless, at the mercy of the government. The papers would find the story and use it as yet another point in their campaign against mutants. If the cost of his desires was his dream, it was not worth it.

Exhausted by considering such things, he maneuvered himself into his wheelchair again and started getting ready for bed. The routine was so mindless that it was not until he lay down he approached the last crucial point of the argument. Two years ago, so much had been different - not only their circumstances and their responsibilities, but the fact that the only thing which made Charles different from men his age was his telepathy. Now, it was not so. Experimentally he snaked in his hand under the pyjama jacket and starting at his sternum, drew his fingers downwards, over his chest and beyond the point where sensation stopped. His fingers traced the sharp curve of his hip-bone and the shape of his genitals, but it was like touching another person’s unresponsive body. Like this, surely he was not worthy of anyone’s attentions? What did he have to give? He had never sensed any repulsion from Erik’s side, only that flash of guilt every time he noticed the wheelchair. However, it had not escaped him that in Erik’s fantasies, he could still move his legs, and feel below the waist. The erotic scenarios he had thought up were thrilling, and Charles found himself wishing that they could happen, but it was impossible. Erik knew it as well, but only on a rational level. How would he react when he _realised_ it? The affection between them had never been completely platonic, and it had reached the point where the tension required a physical manifestation, which Charles could not give. Sexual frustration rose with sudden force, but he could think of nothing to do about it. Even if he left the rest of the world out of it all, pursuing this romance would inevitably lead to the revelation of his inadequacy and the growth of Erik’s contempt towards him. Despair mingled with the frustration, and he covered his eyes. _Who would ever love a cripple?_ he thought. He refused to answer, _Erik,_ even if he wanted it to be true.


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the teachers at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters, the professor himself was the true enigma. The students knew a fair amount of some of the others, particularly Doctor McCoy and Sean (who owed his first time from being more friend than teacher), but even if they did not know particularly much about Mister Summers (although Scott often provided important pieces of the puzzle) and almost nothing of Mister Lehnsherr, the professor remained particularly shrouded in mystery. It was not even a question of information. It was simply that he felt oddly unattainable. Sean often accused them of gossiping, but let them be. After over a year at the school, Susanna still only knew a handful of facts about Professor X.

He owned the mansion; he may have grown up in it. Imagining the professor as a child was odd - it was like trying to imagine your parents as kids. He seemed like an eternal presence. In possible contradiction to this first fact, she knew that he was British. His accent and his tea habits were telling. He was a telepath; he had read her mind the time when he had turned up at her house, because he had known at once that her father was dead and that one of the cats had run away last week. After that, he had entered her mind a few times to help her to control her power. He knew an awful lot about science and literature and history. But other than that? All she knew was that he was a cripple.

Occasionally, she and Betsy, her best friend at the school, talked about it. They had both settled for that if it hadn’t been for the wheelchair, Professor Xavier would have been the most handsome of the teachers. As things were, he was respectfully excluded from their list altogether - it seemed rude to have him on it if it meant putting him last, because it was not like that. All the children adored him - many of them had never had an adult be so kind to them before. But that wheelchair, they thought, made him special. It had the effect of singling him out, making him oddly unattainable and quite infallible. Sometimes he seemed to sit in it almost like a throne. Often Susanna did not even think about the fact that there was a human reason why he used it. Then sometimes, it popped up, often when she was making his tea, something she considered a privilege, but one only bestowed on her because she was doing something he could not do himself. It happened that the children talked about it, often after lights-out when they were in bed in the dormitories. Children from the other dorms would sneak in and sit on the floor, and they asked around. _Does anybody know why he can’t walk? Has he ever mentioned anything? Has he always been like that? Did he have an accident? Is he ill? If he is ill, is he going to die?_ No-one knew, of course. Becky argued that it was unlikely that he had been crippled since birth - he must have had time to do all those things he had obviously done, and how could he have done that if he’d been a cripple? Susanna herself did not know what to think - imagining Professor Xavier as a child was odd enough without trying to imagine a crippled child.

Sometimes, the last few questions returned to her. She came to think of them one day when she was in the kitchen, her hands on either side of the kettle. As steam shot through the spout and she counted the seconds before starting to pour, feeling the heat already dropping, she wondered what would happen if the reason why the professor could not walk was because he was ill, and he was getting worse without them noticing it. It sent a stab through her gut, a feeling of bitter helplessness like that she had felt when her mother had received the letter from the army, telling them that her father was dead. She found the thought so disturbing that she had to remind herself that however much they had tried (and the children were very observant), no one had ever found any actual reason to believe that he was in any danger. There was never a wince, never a cough, never any sickly paleness. As she assembled the tea tray and made sure not to accidentally conduct through the silver, she told herself not to worry so much.

The call of ‘come in!’ from inside the professor’s study sounded distracted, and when Susanna entered, the professor was still hunched over the paper he was marking.

‘Thank you, Susanna,’ he said, still not looking up. ‘On the desk will be fine.’ She approached, reflecting on how consumed in his work he seemed. Often, the professor smiled at her when she came in, occasionally chatting with her before continuing with his work, and he tended to interrupt his work to have it by the French windows. This time, it was not until she was by the desk and put down the tray that he looked up. She thought he looked tired, or perhaps just worried. ‘Yesterday’s tea was rather too strong,’ he said. ‘Don’t overdo the tea-leaves.’

‘Of course,’ she said, a little surprised at the sound of annoyance in his voice, and turned to leave. She tended not to walk this route through the room, and when she passed by the fireplace, the photographs on the mantlepiece caught her attention. She had noticed them before, but had never been close enough to see them.

One frame held two old-fashioned portraits, a young blonde woman, whose high lace-collar pushed her jaw up in a haughty manner, and a man in the uniform of an officer and twisted moustaches. There were a few grainy photographs of children, one of a sturdy, rather ugly youngster and a more delicately built boy, dressed in a sailor suit and looking at the beholder with large, quick eyes. The same boy was depicted on another photograph together with a girl with curly blonde hair. The blonde girl also reappeared, dressed as a confirmand, smiling sarcastically at the camera, and then in another picture, which in particular caught Susanna’s attention, because she knew the other two in it. It was taken in front of the mansion. The girl, older this time, was smiling, leaning against none other than Professor Xavier, who looked into the camera with those sage eyes, which made Susanna realise that the little boy in the studio photographs was him as well. On the professor’s other side was another familiar face, Mister Lehnsherr, not dressed in the suit she was used to seeing him in, but in a turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket. The most astonishing detail was so obvious that she almost missed it at first - the professor was standing up. This must be a recent photograph - they looked much the same age as they did now - but he could _walk_...

‘Susanna.’ Roused from her thoughts, she turned. The professor’s gaze made her want to turn away at once, but she could feel him projecting his disappointment at her into her mind. ‘I believe that those photographs are my business. Don’t you have classes to go to?’ She gulped and nodded.

‘S-s-sorry, Professor,’ she stuttered and, desperate to get away from his disappointment, she almost ran out of the office.

***

The only thing Moira had left behind in the mansion was her camera. Sean had found it in a drawer a few days after her departure; even if they sent the camera back to her, without a return address, they kept the film. Eventually, Hank set up a make-shift darkroom and developed the pictures, which he put into an album which they gave Charles to keep. Susanna’s inspection of the photographs on his mantlepiece put him in mind of the album, and he took it out of the drawer where he kept it. The picture of him, Raven and Erik outside the mansion was the only one which was not in the album; he had wanted to keep it where he could see it, as a reminder of happier days.

None of the photos related to any of the dramatic events, but only witnessed of the intervals between them. The first pictures were from the CIA facility. Though the first few pages of the album, he saw recruit upon recruit arriving. First, it was only himself, Raven, Erik and Hank, then came more of them. Alex and Sean, of course, but there was Darwin and Angel. He lingered over the pictures of them a little longer, letting that old guilt stir again. They disappeared from the pictures with the turn of a page; the next few sheets were pictures from their first meal in the mansion. Now, Moira seemed to have taken upon herself to document their progress, because the next dozen pictures were from their training week. One photo was of the sky, where what first looked like a crooked cross was actually Sean. Another was taken in the nuclear bunker, and even in the bad light, it was possible to make out Alex and the mannequins. Of all the training photos, Charles’ favourite was one of Raven. It seemed like Moira had simply planned to take a portrait picture of her, but just as the shutter closed, Raven had started to shape-shift, so the result was that part of her body was her blonde form, while others were someone else’s. It had taken Charles months to figure out that she was changing into Moira herself. In between the mismatching bits, her own scaly skin could be seen. After the training pictures came a few photos from their last dinner before Cuba. Their smiles looked a little forced, and their nerves were obvious. The only one who looked quite calm was Erik, seated beside Charles, who sat with his wine glass between his hands, looking at the man at his side. Hank and Raven posed awkwardly, as if something in their stance reflected the uncertain status of their own relationship. Sean looked half-asleep, but from Charles remembered, he had been the one to volunteer to take a picture of Moira. There were two; one with her sitting between Erik and Alex, and then one much closer to the lens. Feeling suddenly guilty, Charles remembered how angry Sean had been with him for erasing Moira’s memories. He was probably too young to realise that his puerile crush had not been requited; Moira had never seen him as more than an endearing child.

Hank had consciously left a page blank after the pictures of that night, as if to represent the things where no pictures existed; his own transformation, Shaw’s death, Erik’s departure, Raven’s defection, Charles’ injury. The next photograph was of the remaining recruits, the only one on that page. All of them unsmiling and dull-eyed. Hank had a hat pushed down in his face to hide his appearance, Alex held a coffee-cup half-way to his mouth and Sean was chewing his lip. When the film had been developed and Charles had asked about the circumstances of the photo, he had been told that it had been when he had been in hospital. The rest he had learnt through picking their memories for details. Charles had still been sedated, but the doctors had started hinting at the injury would have severe consequences. In an attempt to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the hospital, they had had lunch at a small café nearby. Moira had picked up her camera distractedly and kept her hands filled with it for a minute or so. Then she had raised it and snapped a picture of the others, sitting opposite her. Hank had only just stopped himself from reaching out and crushing the camera in her hands. ‘Why did you do that for?’ he had asked. She shrugged, not knowing herself.

The next picture was the one Charles had tried to make Hank destroy. When they handed over the album to him, he had contemplated tearing it out and burning it himself, but Hank’s handiwork was so lovingly done that he had not been able to do it. Nevertheless, he did not like it. He was alone in the frame, sitting propped against the pillows in bed. He was dressed in an unbecoming hospital gown, and however much he had tried to hide it, the IV drip was visible. Despite his attempts to give an impression of being stronger than he was, his pallor and the dark around his eyes betrayed him. He had a vague memory of not actually being able to hold his head up on his own at that point. Disturbed by those memories, he flicked through the last few pages, where they were back at the mansion and he was recovering.

He stopped at a picture of Moira; by the angle it was taken from, it was obvious that it was Charles behind the camera. She had obviously not noticed what he was doing until just before, because instead of trying to look composed, she laughed. Now, he leaned back, angling the album against the edge of the desk to see the photo better. It seemed odd to be able to feel so alone in a house with so many people in it. He could do with someone like Moira around now. In fact, he felt a sudden pang of longing for her specifically. She had been caring, but sensible, a combination he had realised was uncommon. Rubbing his face, Charles sighed inwardly. Had she been here, he had probably not been able to get any advice from her. She would not have understood. Imagining that she would, however, was some kind of help at least.

Now, he returned to the early pages of the album, finding a picture of Raven in her blonde form. If she were here, she would tell him to stop sulking. Her straightforward manner had often annoyed him, but now it felt that it would be refreshing. Too few spoke their minds, and too many acted as if it was not necessary. Most probably, she would wave his problems away if he were ever given enough time to explain them. ‘Man up,’ she would say.

‘How did I lose all this?’ Charles murmured to himself as he flicked through the album. They had been a family back then. Now, he felt isolated at the top of the organisation the school was, and it was either impossible for the others to reach him or he did not let them. Perhaps the school was not to blame - perhaps it was the events on the beach, and his resulting paralysis. Was that damned bullet the source to all his troubles? Rendering him handicapped had been enough, but it had made him infinitely lonely. It seemed ridiculous that it had taken him so much time to realise it, but he already knew that Erik was the catalyst. He had lured him out of the enclosed little world he had built up, and made him face the consequences of those old events.

But he had not done it in ill-will - quite the opposite. Yet it was two days ago since they kissed, and Charles could not look him in the eye. He had made up reasons to decline his suggestions of playing chess in the evenings, but had been unable to quench the guilt at Erik’s disappointment. Despite his hopes that he would be subtle enough, Erik had noticed that he was avoiding him consciously, and even now Charles could feel his anger and distress build up. Briefly, Charles wondered if he should sit him down and explain to him that he was not doing it out of malice, but such a conversation could be turned against him far too easily. So once again he pushed aside the thoughts of trying to speak of him. Erik had been right - he was a coward, not because of what he did for mutant rights, but for what he did not do for those closest to him. He bit back tears and ignored the knowledge that only a few room away was a man who would willingly love him ( _but that’s just what he thinks now, he doesn’t know how it’d be_ ).

‘Right,’ he said to himself out loud. ‘Let’s take a look at those accounts, shall we?’ False cheerfulness, he had realised, could go a long way. It would have to do for now.

***

Charles spent the afternoon training with Jason. After lunch, he had made a small bouquet of pink flowers, picked from the rose-garden, which he thought of as his own little sanctuary. Jason’s task was to change the colour of the flowers, turning them white, red, even bright violet. Then he tried to change the kind of flowers in the vase in front of him. The only way for Jason to change only part of someone’s perception was to make an illusion which was identical to reality apart from that one detail. It was a technique which Jason already knew instinctively, but when he did it consciously, the parts he was not paying as much attention to tended to become indistinct. The vase of flowers would be clear, but there would be a sense of unreality about the rest of the room. It was certainly getting better during this session, but Charles found himself distracted. He remembered the illusion of the Dixian battlefield and how he had walked through the mud. Shameful as it was, he wanted to ask - no, beg - the boy, _make an illusion where I can walk. Please, make me walk again, just for a moment._ It was a request he could not make, and it would serve no purpose. It would mean being at the mercy of a volatile boy. He told himself that the temptation he imagined existed was not an option in any way, and the only thing they changed was the colour of the flowers.

During their session, it started hailing. At dinner, it had grown so strong that it was clear that it was not a natural phenomenon.

‘That bloody kid,’ Alex muttered, hunched over his plate. ‘It was a nice day.’ Charles looked out, imagining how the rose-garden must look when the small bullets of ice nestled into the folds of the roses. He was certain that it was a beautiful sight. As the smatter of the ice against the window grew stronger, Alex swore and said: ‘Why can’t she just control it?’

‘You’re one to talk,’ Erik said half under his breath. He was not looking at the window, but concentrated on his food. Alex, however, turned sharply at him.

‘So just because you can lift a submarine you can lecture me,’ he snapped.

‘You still can’t control your powers on your own,’ Erik pointed out sharply. ‘Besides, what business of yours is Ororo’s training?’

‘It affects me too, doesn’t it?’ he answered. Now Erik shrugged and said, as if dropping a comment on the weather, were it not freakish:

‘Well, it was your brother who blasted a hole through the dining room wall last week.’ Alex tensed, and seemed torn between grabbing his knife or jumping to his feet to punch him.

‘You bastard...’ Alex’s cutlery mangled itself suddenly into two harmless balls of metal. Red energy started sparking from him.

‘Stop it!’ The two men stared at Charles, startled at how he had raised his voice.

‘Charles...’

‘Professor....’

‘Shut up, both of you!’ he shouted, cutting them short. ‘Is it possible for once to have dinner in this house without having to listen to you all being at each other’s throats? Just _once_?’ He looked from Alex to Erik to Hank, all of them staring at him in shock. ‘Good God, are you the teachers or the students? Am I the only adult in this bloody place?’ There was another moment of surprised silence, and then Erik said:

‘He insulted a student...’

‘For fuck sake, will you not argue back for once!’ Charles shouted straight at him. As he uttered the words, something fractured in Erik’s pale eyes, even as he closed his mouth resolutely. The sudden anger taking its toll, Charles stared down in the table, recognising how Erik withdrew, and pressed a hand to his mouth to fight down a sob. The room was completely silent around him, as if the others had completely disappeared. Then a large hand touched his shoulder.

‘Professor?’ Hank said gently.

‘Leave me alone, Beast,’ he said sharply and pulled away. ‘Just leave me alone.’ Not looking at any of them, he flicked the brakes on his chair and wheeled himself towards the door. Storming out of a room did not work as well if you were in a wheelchair, but he gained some satisfaction from slamming the door. Even as he headed towards the lift, he could hear from inside the room how a chair was violently pushed back, and then Hank’s voice:

‘Let him go, Erik - it’s no use.’ Charles both feared and hoped that Erik would not heed the advice. Well in his room, he lingered close to the door, but no one followed.

***

An hour or so after the interrupted dinner, there was a knock on the door. Hank entered carefully, as if feeling that he was trespassing into some sanctuary by stepping into the headmaster’s bedroom. He stopped only a few steps in, far away from where Charles sat at his desk.

‘Professor... eum, are you okay?’

‘I appreciate your concern, Hank,’ Charles said. ‘It’s...’ He waved his hand, not wanting to state that he was not “okay”. Instead, he started stuffing his pipe, which gave him an excuse not to look at him. Hank weighed awkwardly from one foot to the other, and then asked:

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘What would you expect that you would be able to do to help me?’ he sighed, concentrating on the tobacco.

‘Well, you’ve seemed... preoccupied the last few days.’ Charles looked up, suddenly afraid that he had figured it out. But no, Hank simply assumed that he was overworked - he had not factored Erik into it at all. ‘If you’d like to talk about it...’ For a moment, he considered it. Letting it all out would be a relief, but he could not relinquish control. Besides, Hank would not understand.

‘Thank you for the offer, but I think that... well.’ Hank nodded, looking a little relieved. ‘I’m sorry I screamed at you, Hank. You weren’t doing anything.’ He shrugged gawkily.

‘You’re right that it would be nice if people didn’t try killing each other at the dinner table,’ he admitted.

‘I’m glad we agree,’ Charles said and pressed a smile. He had assumed that that would be the end of the conversation, but Hank lingered. ‘Yes?’ he said to prompt him. Hank tried to compose himself, but when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically soft.

‘Do you ever doubt his motives?’ Charles sighed.

‘There is no deceit in Erik’s mind,’ he said. It was no longer that he was afraid of. ‘Now, if you’d...’

‘Oh,’ Hank said, understanding the hint. ‘Of course. I’ll, eum, see you tomorrow.’ He lumbered off, leaving Charles on his own again. He had thought that he would feel better after the chat, but it made him feel little different. He lit his pipe and stared into the ceiling. Perhaps he should talk to Ororo about the weather. If she had done this consciously, then it was impressive. When she had come to the school, he had sealed off parts of her abilities to make them more manageable - perhaps it was time to start reintroducing them. When he started up this school, he had never thought that so much time would be spent helping children build shields in their minds.

He let these thoughts mill through his head until his pipe went out. He moved to refill it, when he was suddenly aware of someone at the door, simply standing there. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then Charles sensed the decision. This time there was no knock. The door-knob turned and in stepped Erik.

‘Smoking a pipe makes you look very much the part, you know,’ he said conversationally. Charles promptly put the pipe down and clasped his hands together.

‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said curtly. Erik simply closed the door and stepped closer.

‘I gathered.’ They were silent for a moment, then Charles observed:

‘Usually, that is a polite way of saying “get out”.’ Erik looked him in the eye.

‘Then tell me to.’ He opened his mouth to say it, but the words died in his throat. It angered him that Erik could simply stand there, _smiling,_ when he was being very clear about not wanting to see him. He seemed completely unperturbed as he stepped closer yet. ‘You’ve been avoiding me the past two days.’

‘Can you blame me?’ Charles muttered.

‘I don’t understand why,’ Erik said truthfully. He had reached the desk now, and leaned closer, still looking him in the eye. ‘Are you... scared?’ He pronounced the word consciously, as if it were not part of his usual vocabulary.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Charles just said and looked away. Erik sighed.

‘Self-pity doesn’t suit you, my friend,’ he said. ‘It is a refuge for lesser men.’

‘Erik,’ Charles said, cutting him off. He had had enough of the man’s presumptuous behaviour and his own indecisiveness. Barely keeping his voice from trembling, he spoke. ‘I’m thirty-two years old and I will never walk again. Do you have any idea how that feels?’ Erik stared at him, bewildered. ‘I said, do you have an idea how it feels?’ Charles repeated, at once livid. ‘You wouldn’t. I’m confined to this thing-’ he slapped the armrest of his wheelchair ‘-for the rest of my bloody life. I can’t enter my own house from the front door because of the steps - I have to use the servants’ entrance. I can’t go anywhere, without someone driving me, and when someone has the time and inclination to do so, they become my bloody chaperone! I can’t get into libraries, museums, theatres - I can’t even make my own tea! And people _stare_. God, do you realise the looks they give me? Even the children - they whisper behind my back. I’m a curiosity to them, which they try to figure out. I’m not a person anymore, not even to my own students!’ He broke off and covered his face with his hand, letting the tears fall into his palm. There was no answer, only footsteps, and then the sound of Erik sitting down on the desk beside him.

‘It won’t always be like that.’ Charles let his hand fall and stared at him angrily, not even bothering that he saw his tears.

‘What, will it all get better? I’ll heal up? It’ll get easier to bear?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you get it, Erik? I’ll never get better, and I’ll never stop being a freak to all those people.’

‘People always stare at those who do not fit in,’ Erik said matter-of-factly. ‘Ask Hank - ask _me_.’

‘Oh, God, it’s always about you, isn’t it?’ Charles exclaimed and wheeled away from the desk as quickly as he could, not bearing to be close to him. ‘It always ends up being about _your_ problems. Everyone else - oh, we’re just overreacting.’ Erik rose very quickly, and Charles heard him approaching. Suddenly he was afraid - perhaps he had been too insensitive, and taken the argument too far. Erik took hold of the chair and spun him around to face him, but even if his eyes were alight, the muddled sensation Charles got from him as he planted one hand on each arm-rest and loomed menacingly over him was not that of self-righteous anger, but of something else.

‘What kind of person are you, Charles?’ he asked. ‘What defines _you_? It is high time that you decide what is important.’ He moved one hand to grab Charles’ knee. ‘Is this you? Or this?’ The other hand came to rest in his hair, his thumb caressing his forehead. All Charles could see was his eyes, fierce and unforgiving. ‘If you think that your physical body was what defined you as a person, then yes, you have lost everything, and it is my fault. But if the things that truly matter are greater than that...’ He leaned closer, and the hand on Charles’ knee moved to cup his cheek instead. ‘If it is your mind, your abilities, your knowledge, your emotions which make you who you are...’ He paused and swallowed to steady himself. ‘If that is what defines you, then you are still Charles Xavier, and I will not see that that man, who is the greatest I have ever met, give in and poison his soul with bitterness.’

Faced with that passionate fierceness, Charles felt his own stormy emotions melt, leaving his qualms bare.

‘Oh, Erik,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Neither do you, for all your telepathy,’ Erik answered, his voice growing strangely tender. Instead of continuing to tower over him, he went down on one knee in front of him, looking up at him. ‘The worst things in our lives all define us - you told me that very thing only a few days ago. But they need not - should not - diminish us.’ Charles knew what he said was true, but still found himself shaking his head. Erik smiled laconically. ‘I will keep reminding you of it, my friend, until you acknowledge it. I will not see someone I love be ruined like this.’

That made Charles’ breath hitch.

‘How can you love me?’ he said quietly. As if to ascertain that this was not a dream, he reached out, and found the shoulders he grabbed very real indeed.

‘Read my mind,’ Erik urged him, not looking away. Charles swallowed.

‘I don’t know if I dare.’ He smiled.

‘Then you know what is there to see,’ he concluded and moved so that they were eye to eye. ‘Since you pulled me from the water, this has been what I have felt, and nothing can change that,’ he told him. ‘Not my mistakes, or your fears.’

‘Brothers,’ Charles said. Erik nodded.

‘Yes, in every way,’ he said and leaned in. Charles almost gave in, but regained his posture just as their lips were about to touch. He pressed his shoulder, stopping him.

‘I can’t - the school,’ he whispered. ‘If people found out... they’d close us down, take the children...’ Erik watched him with respect, but there was still a condescending light in his eye.

‘For once, let yourself be selfish,’ he told him.

‘It’ll give people yet another reason to hate us...’ He fell silent when Erik put a finger to his lips.

‘We stand above them,’ he told him calmly. ‘We make our own laws - there is no reason for us to listen to their bigotry.’ They looked at each other, and Erik’s finger fell, like an enemy disarmed himself in good faith after conditions had been given. Charles understood what the conditions were. He looked into his eyes, stalling for time another moment, and then pressed their lips together.

The stalemate had been broken. Erik grabbed at his arms and pulled at him, while Charles buried his fingers in his hair to draw him closer. All that sensation - all that nearness! Stumbling, Erik got to his feet and deepened the kiss, cupping his jaw, but then started undoing his shirt. Reciprocating, he undid button upon button until they drew apart and discarded those first pieces of clothing, ties and shirts and vests falling to the floor. Fascinated, Charles traced his fingers over Erik’s chest. For such a strong man, he was surprisingly thin. While his arms were quite athletic, the sternum was still visible underneath the skin, as if emaciation was unwilling to let go completely. He did not linger on that detail - for now, past misfortunes did not matter. Erik kissed his way up his jawline and licked his ear as he whispered:

‘Tell me what you want.’ Charles buried his fingers in his hair and gasp as Erik took his earlobe into his mouth, distracting him from answering for a moment.

‘I - I don’t know,’ he gulped. Every time when he had thought about sex since his injury, it had only made him feel a resigned frustration at his loss of sensation. He must have forgot that above the waist, he _could_ feel, as Erik was demonstrating very well now. While waiting for a proper answer, Erik moved downwards, his knee between Charles’ for support as he left a trail of kisses down his throat and chest, until he reached a nipple, which he lapped out at. Charles called out and compulsively, he licked his lips. ‘Stand up, Erik,’ he said, not certain how he managed to speak with his breath coming so heavily. Erik scrambled to his feet, as if startled at the command.

There was a tremble to Charles’ hands as he reached out and placed them on Erik’s hips. He made him move so that he was standing in front of him. The position was not perfect; he would have to bend down rather precariously, but it would have to do. With the acute concentration of a terrified youngster, he removed one hand at a time from his hip and locked the wheels. All the time, Erik watched him, eyes clouded with passion. As Charles started undoing his trousers, he drew a ragged breath and croaked:

‘Charles...’ He looked up at him, his hands stopping for a moment.

‘You want this,’ Charles stated. He knew - after all, he had seen his fantasies. Erik swallowed.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, stalling. A minute nod from Erik ended the trepidation. Gathering himself, Charles pressed a kiss against his stomach and pulled down his trousers and underwear. Once again drawing back, he looked at the nakedness, and glanced up. Erik’s eyes were hooded, watching him in anticipation. His thoughts were pressing against Charles, begging him to do something. Licking his lips, he put one hand on his hip and the other around his erection, and then leaned closer. He must have been a student last time he had done this. The reservations he had had then were gone, and the idea of having him in his mouth made his heart beat even harder than it already did. It may be impossible for him to spread his legs for him, but he was damned well going to do this.

When Charles’ lips first touched the head of his erection, Erik well-nigh whimpered. As he opened his mouth and closed his lips around him, then dragged back as his tongue traced the underside of the glans, the whimper turned into a full-throated groan. _Stop teasing me, Charles - I know you’re listening_. Charles laughed, and the movement awarded him with yet another gasp. Deciding to heed his request, he started licking at him with more purpose and then took him in. He could not remember how far he could push himself. When Erik started moving in unison to him, he decided to risk it and, brazing himself, leaned forward. Erik slipped deeper into his mouth, deep enough to hit his gag reflex. Instinctively, Charles recoiled and swallowed to control the unpleasant feeling. His mouth working around him made Erik gasp yet again.

Falling into his rhythm again, Charles met his thrusts more easily, aware now of how deeply he dared to let him. The sensation of that sensitive skin against his tongue and lips was intoxicating, the physicality at the same time distasteful and covetable. As he moved back and forth, sucking and licking and stroking, a great sense of liberation came over him. While so often listening to his rational superego which carried all the prejudice and conventional ideas which he had been taught, having it opposed by the base id, and its principles of amoral egotism made him feel like he was breaking through lifelong bonds. Even in the sense of repulsion, he found pleasure, and as their movements sped up, he revelled in the obscene heat and tastes. Through the telepathic presence inside Erik’s mind, he felt how the suspense was growing unbearable, but his seed spilling over his tongue was still a surprise. As Erik pulled back, hands planting on his shoulders for support, Charles fought down brief moral nausea and swallowed. Afraid that stray drops may escape his lips, he pressed the back of his hand to his lips, and suddenly the sound of Erik’s laugh rang through the room. _You ridiculous inhibited Englishman!_ His fingers found Charles’ arm and pulled away his hand to kiss him.

‘Erik...’ Charles protested. The idea of Erik kissing him when he had just fellated him felt a little too much, but he just laughed again and pushed their lips together.

‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he told him when they broke the kiss. Charles, who felt that he had lost his bearings altogether through that kiss, willingly obeyed. As he pushed himself close so that their chests rested together, Erik took hold behind his knees and lifted him out of the chair. Charles trusted him to be able to find the way to the bed without seeing, and kissed him as deeply as he could. Erik kissed back, and did not break the kiss when they reached the bed, when he clumsily put him down onto it and took off his remaining clothes. He swore under his breath at the fiddly garters, and when he had finally shed the last piece of clothing, Charles took hold of his arm and pulled him down on top of him.

‘You’re strong,’ Erik half-whispered between kisses, tracing the muscles of Charles’ arms. In any other situation, he would have been offended at the assumption that he would not be, but the admiration in his voice was obvious. As if to illustrate what Erik had just said, Charles took hold of his shoulder and pushed him up, then pulled himself to that his body lay straight in the bed. For a long, drawn-out moment, they watched each other, Erik completely naked, sitting on his feet, Charles propping himself up on his elbows. Distantly they were aware of the hail still pounding against the windows. A shiver went through Charles, and Erik reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm, and what the cold had ruined of his excitement started to return. Wordlessly, Erik crept closer and once again covered him with his body, stroking his arms as if trying to rubbing life into him. His mouth, which had rested close to his, wandered, kissing his jaw and his ear, and then down his throat. When he reached his shoulder, he bit into his skin, drawing a scream out of him.

‘Did I hurt you?’ Erik asked, looking alarmed. Charles swallowed and shook his head. The pain had only sparked new hunger for his closeness.

‘Erik, go on,’ he panted. ‘Please.’ But Erik stayed standing over him on all fours, looking uncertain. It was not until then Charles realised that he was still half-dressed.

‘May I undress you?’ The question was hesitant, as if he were asking for forgiveness for an intrusion. Indeed, Charles now sensed Erik’s reluctance to touch him below the point where sensation ceased. To Erik, it seemed like an act of violation to caress him, however lovingly, when he could not feel it. All the same, the fabric of his trousers was uncomfortable against his bare skin, and the shoes were worse.

‘Of course,’ Charles said and propped himself up again to watch him. Erik shuffled downwards then glanced up at him again, his uneasiness visible. For want of Erik’s touch, Charles decided to substitute it with his own, and started idly rubbing his own nipple. The insecurity in Erik’s eyes changed into aroused fascination. Then he concentrated on his task, knowing that the sooner he fulfilled it, the sooner he could touch him himself. Charles watched him fumble with the shoe-laces and grabbed each ankle in turn to pull off his shoes and socks. When he crawled upwards and reached towards the fastenings of his trousers, Charles stopped his ministrations and put his hand in the way of his fingers.

‘Remember that it’s not... representative,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘ _That’s_ not how I feel.’ For a moment, he was afraid that his failure at explaining his impotence before had ruined the moment, but that worry disappeared when Erik took hold of his chin and guided him into a kiss. Charles’ hand fell away and stroked his hair instead. He heard the sound of a zipper, and then Erik drew back and pulled off the remainder of his clothes.

He did not spend any time on the skin he had just uncovered. Instead, he laid himself alongside him on his side and, placing one elbow on either side of his torso, dipped down and kissed him. It was not tender as the recent kiss, but raw and deep, not so much between lips as full mouths and jaws. Tongues entwined almost to the root, and the saliva made them slip against each other. As they kissed, Erik stroked his chest and found his nipple. First his fondles were almost idle, but when Charles gave a croak into the kiss after one particular movement, he grew more focused. Shortness of breath made them break the kiss, but still when Charles was panting, Erik leaned down and licked down the artery on his throat, which made him gasp for air. His tongue was replaced by his teeth, nibbling at the thin skin, as he twisted the nipple between his fingertips. Charles felt the reflex of bucking his hips trying to act. Desperate to feel as much of him as possible, he put his arms around Erik, one over his neck and the other around his back. He pulled him close as Erik pressed his tongue against the bruise he was making and drew his hand over his chest, to then concentrate on his other nipple. As he pushed his thumb over it and sucked at his throat, the tension which had been building up inside every functioning nerve in his body reached its peak. For a split second, it balanced there, and then broke,Charles threw his head back with a shout.

Even after the scream, Erik continued kissing his throat a few more moments. When he raised his head and looked at him, Charles laughed. With his abilities uncontrolled the moments after climax, he had seen himself through Erik’s eyes - blushing and bruised with kisses, his eyes reduced to slits by the approaching post-coital drowse. Erik looked almost as delightedly disorientated, his hair hanging into his face and his lips swollen. He grinned at Charles’ laughter and, burying his head against the other man’s shoulder, laughed too. It was the sound of pure joy, so uncommon in his voice.

‘Oh, Erik,‘ Charles said and kissed his hair. All he could sense from him was this unbridled happiness. Erik shifted, pulled the covers out from under them and covered them both. As the light-switch flicked and the lights went out, Erik settled again, his head propped against his chest. Charles put his arm around him, finding no way to express his affection which seemed enough. Besides, they were both tired from the sex and the fighting. ‘I’m sorry for screaming at you,’ he said, finding his voice a little slurred with fatigue.

‘We’re square,’ Erik murmured and kissed his collar-bone. They lay in silence for a long while. Charles was almost certain that he had fallen asleep, when he half-whispered: ‘Whatever you read in my mind now, I promise you, it’s stronger than that.’ Charles smiled, his eyelids becoming too heavy to support.

‘Yes, my friend,’ he said, tightening his grip around him. ‘I believe you.’


	6. Chapter 6

‘Hey, Ororo, wake up.’

Something was poking Ororo’s shoulder, hard enough for it to wake her. She turned to her other side, hazily trying to get away from whatever it was. The poking stopped, and instead, a pair of hands took hold of her and shook her.

‘Ororo, it’s stopped hailing!’ She gave in and opened one eye. As soon as she could tell who was sitting on her bed, she buried her face in the pillow and said:

‘Jason, go away.’

‘No,’ said the resolute voice. ‘Wake up, or I’ll put you into a little box - so small that you can’t move or breathe.’ With sudden force, she sat up and stared at him.

‘I’d strike you first. With lightning.’

‘You wouldn’t be fast enough,’ Jason answered and smiled, a small peace offering. ‘I’ve learned your name and everything - you should talk to me.’ Drawing her knees close to her body, feeling that otherwise she might fall backwards and go to sleep again, Ororo looked around to make sure that none of the other girls had been woken. Just in case, she put her finger to her lips, and Jason imitated her. Shuffling closer, he whispered: ‘How did you make it hail?’

She shrugged.

‘I didn’t want to do sports, so I called the hail. It’s a kind of magic.’

‘It’s not magic - it’s just genes,’ Jason answered. ‘The professor explained it to me.’

‘Perhaps magic can be in the genes as well, then,’ Ororo retorted. She wanted to tell him to go back his own dorm so that she could go to sleep again, but perhaps Jason would put her in a box if she did that. She wondered who had told him that she was afraid of such things.

‘But you can make any weather?’

‘Mostly bad weather,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t call the sunshine.’ Jason seemed to think about it.

‘Would you make me some weather, if I made you something?’ Ororo hesitated, looking at him.

‘Do you want me to make something dangerous?’ she asked.

‘No, not really,’ Jason answered. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a world if you do it.’

‘What kind of world?’ Ororo wondered sceptically. Jason shrugged.

‘What kind would you like?’

***

The first thing Charles was aware of when he woke up was the unpleasant taste in his mouth. Still half-asleep, he thought that he must have forgot to brush his teeth the previous evening. Then he snapped awake, aware that he was not alone in the room. The space beside him in the bed empty; Erik was standing beside the window, so that he could look out of it but he would not be seen. He had made no attempt at modesty, but was still completely naked, his bare skin shimmering in the oddly white light from outside. His bony chest and his uncompromising nakedness reminded Charles of an Egon Shiele nude, something about that light giving the apparition an expressionistic feel, while at the same time, it put him in mind of what they had done, and what else they might do.

‘How long have you been awake?’ Charles said as he pushed himself up in a sitting position and propped himself against the bed-board. Erik looked his way and smiled.

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Hours?’ he replied. ‘And you’re still here? Still... naked?’

‘I didn’t want to leave,’ Erik answered simply, his voice still hushed. Now he left his perch at the window and slipped under the sheets again. When he settled, he pressed close to kiss his shoulder and draw a hand over his bare chest. Charles kissed his forehead in response.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asked. ‘Did I thrash?’

‘No, not at all,’ Erik said and leaned in to kiss his collar-bones tenderly. ‘I don’t sleep much. I was afraid to wake you if I stayed in bed.’ Now he straightened up and looked him full in the face.

‘I wouldn’t have complained,’ Charles said quietly. The last syllable disappeared as Erik leaned in and kissed him. The kiss tasted of morning, but the physicality of it was welcome. When they pulled apart, Erik looked away, and a secretive smile spread over his lips. ‘What are you thinking?’ Charles asked and stroked his hair. The smile grew a little at the absurdity of such a question coming from a telepath, but then he looked up. There was something profound in his eyes, and under that gaze, Charles found himself tongue-tied. Erik remained silent for a few more seconds, savouring the tranquility of the moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, as if he did not want to ruin that calmness.

‘Most days, I do not know why I am alive. As if I have tricked fate by escaping my appointed time, and I now exist between living and dying, without any claim on either state, and anything I do is a way to distract myself from the chimera of my existence.’ He paused and reached to stroke Charles’ face. In his touch, Charles could sense the bubbling sense of wonder in him. Yet again he smiled. ‘Today is not such a day.’ He smiled back and pulled Erik into an embrace. He did not attempt to speak, because there were no words in any language he knew which could express the humbling gratitude he felt at giving him purpose.

At length, the embrace shifted, and Charles rested his head against Erik’s chest. The beat of his heart almost lulled him to sleep, but feeling his fingers comb through his hair and ghost over his neck made him want to stay awake.

‘The light’s odd,’ Charles said finally, watching the bright rays flooding in through the window.

‘Ororo hasn’t been idle,’ Erik simply said and sought his lips. They kissed, and then Charles said, half to himself:

‘Where’s my dressing-gown?’

‘I think it’s on the floor,’ Erik answered, gesturing to the side closer to Charles. With a half-apologetic smile, he disentangled their limbs and pushed himself away. He fished the dressing-gown up from the floor and pushed himself up on one arm, when he felt a hand on his back. He stayed still, waiting, as Erik came closer until his breath played upon his shoulder.

‘Is this...?’ His fingers traced his spine downwards, passing the point where he stopped feeling. Charles knew that he had followed the scar running down his back.

‘From the surgery,’ he explained. ‘The bullet itself didn’t break the skin.’ Erik’s hand withdrew, and for a moment they were separated, until he put his arms around him and pressed him close.

‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, emotion in his voice. Charles turned his head to catch a glimpse of him.

‘Don’t say that.’ He did not want Erik to feel guilty, and most of all he did not want him to start treating him like an invalid, like so many others did. He wanted to say, _it doesn’t matter_ , but that was not true. If he had the choice, of course he would want to be whole and able. There were so many things he wished he could do, and this new-found intimacy with Erik multiplied those wishes. But if Erik started pitying him, he would be so much more aware of how inadequate he was to him. He needed to stay away from those thoughts at any cost, lest they overpower him.

‘Promise me something, Erik,’ he said and turned around so that they faced each other.

‘Anything.’

‘Never patronise me,’ Charles said. ‘I get enough of that from Hank and the others.’ Erik smiled mirthlessly, but nodded.

‘You do know how much they care for you, don’t you?’ he then said.

‘Of course,’ Charles said. He felt it every time they were close. ‘But it doesn’t make the pity any easier to bear.’ Then, feeling that they had spent enough time on such questions, he took hold of his chin and pulled him into a kiss. Erik kissed back eagerly, and when their lips parted, the contented look was back on his face.

‘I promise.’

‘Thank you,’ Charles said with a genuine smile. As he put on the dressing-gown, he realised that the wheelchair was on the other side of the room, where they had left it last night. ‘Erik, would you mind?’ At a commanding flick of Erik’s hand, the chair rolled towards then and when it stopped at the bedside, Charles maneuvered himself into it. As he drew his legs after him and put each foot on the footrests, he picked up Erik’s thoughts. He had expected him, despite what he had just promised, to reflect on his own guilt and Charles’ weakness, but instead, he felt respect, as well as feeling somewhat impressed, relieved that Charles’ stubbornness was intact. _He could have asked me to lift him, but still he does it himself._ ‘I’ve been doing this for the past two years,’ he said and smiled at him. ‘I don’t even have to think about it anymore.’

‘Listening in, are you?’ Erik asked, but smiled back.

‘I’m sorry - I was curious,’ Charles admitted and arranged his dressing-gown to achieve some degree of modesty. Erik half-sat, half-sprawled on the bed, completely unashamed at not wearing a stitch. For a brief moment, he considered telling him outright how beautiful he found him, every sharp bone, every scar, every quirk of his mien. Then he collected himself instead and crossed to the window.

Overnight, the grounds had turned white. It was just about possible to see the invisible line where the artificial winter ceased and autumn remained, but until that point, the lawns were covered in a thick snow blanket.

‘Snow,’ he said and laughed in wonder. ‘In October! That girl is amazing.’

‘It’ll be cold outside,’ Erik said. ‘You should come back to bed.’

‘What’s the time?’ He rolled onto his stomach and reached for the alarm clock.

‘Quarter to eight.’

‘Quarter to?’ Charles repeated, snapping awake properly. ‘We should have been down at breakfast ages ago. Erik, put something on. You need to get back to your room.’ As he spoke, he drew the curtains, and passed to the wardrobe. When he had retrieved a shirt and waistcoat from it, he paused and watched Erik, who had left the bed and was picking his clothes off the floor. Quickly he replaced each piece of clothing which he had shed the previous evening. When he was decently dressed and had straightened his tie, he crossed to him and leaned down to kiss him. Charles craned his neck and beat him to it. _Finally,_ thought Erik. _Why did we wait so long to do this? This is how it should always have been._ When he drew back, leaving Charles’ lips feeling raw, they smiled at each other, and Erik said:

'You should take a look in the mirror.’ Patting him on the shoulder, he turned and left. When Charles entered the bathroom and followed his advice, he understood what Erik had meant.

***

The purple-and-red love bite on Charles’ neck proved impossible to hide completely without a complete rethinking of his wardrobe - suddenly the advantage of turtlenecks seemed obvious. His attempts to cover it up simply with his collar were mostly unsuccessful, and when he came down for breakfast, both Hank and Alex’s eyes seemed to grow.

 _‘Have you been attacked by a... wild dog?’ Alex asked, too astounded to manage proper sarcasm._

‘Or a vacuum cleaner,’ Hank suggested, looking as if his eyes would pop out of their sockets. They were both frantically trying to figure out how the professor had managed to smuggle a mistress into the house.

‘Beautiful weather, isn’t it?’ Charles just said cheerfully as he settled in the empty space by the table and started pouring his tea. ‘We’ll have to make sure the children are properly bundled up - it seems quite cold. Remind me to tell Sean where mine and Raven’s old clothes are kept.’

Just then, the door opened and Erik rushed in, dressed in fresh clothes.

‘Someone took a lie-in,’ Alex muttered into his coffee. Erik did not heed him, only sat down and glanced at Charles.

‘Keeping the children inside today will be impossible,’ he said.

‘Well, we’ll have to give them some extra time off,’ Charles answered brightly. ‘There’s really nothing like playing in the snow. Would you care for some tomatoes, Erik? Eggs?’ Erik accepted the plate and looked him in the eye for a moment. Charles smiled back at him and then looked away, hoping the way he felt his cheeks flushing was not too telling.

***

The morning classes all finished early, and the children were allowed out into the snow. Sean had spent the morning looking through boxes in the attic and had found enough bobble-hats, gloves and scarves to go around. Charles had retrieved his winter coat and a cap, as well as his old college scarf. The shade of blue in the scarf, made rather worse by the pink-and-grey lines, clashed with the blue of his suit, but it would keep him warm and, possibly more importantly, hide the hickey. Perhaps it would keep at least the children from speculating.

As soon as he came outside, the cacophony of the playing students struck him. A snowball fight was being fought on the big lawn, and a little way away a few children were building a snowman. His progress down the path was much slower than usual. Several inches of snow had fallen overnight, and even if the paths had been stepped up, they were slippery and unpredictable. There had only been a few weeks of snow the previous winter, so he was not very used to it in his current condition. Inevitably, he had not ventured outside as much as he did in other weathers. He knew the children worried that he might do himself an injury, and Hank was terrified that he might catch cold, considering how easily it could turn into pneumonia. Their fretting occasionally made the challenge of going outside not feel worth it, which was a shame, because he had always loved the snow. He had fond memories of having snowball-fights with Raven when they were children, and now he felt rather perturbed by his inability to join in.

It was among the children with the snowman he spotted the child he had been looking for, the white hair sticking out from under the red bobble-hat unmistakable. Forming a funnel with his hands which he put to his mouth, he shouted:

‘Ororo!’ The little shape turned around and when she saw him waving at her, she turned to the others, probably to make her excuses, and then ran through the snow. When she approached, she dropped into a walk, looking rather shamefaced.

‘I’m sorry, professor,’ she said. ‘I can explain.’

‘Don’t apologise, Ororo,’ he said and waved her to his side. ‘Walk with me.’ When they were out of earshot, he asked: ‘So, you’re making a snowman?’

‘It’s not a snowman,’ she explained, sounding just as aloof as only a twelve-year-old could. ‘It’s a snow-Beast.’ Charles laughed, his eyes on the ground just in front of him.

‘Are you going to give it glasses?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, not sounding certain. ‘You don’t think Doctor McCoy would mind?’

‘Oh, he’ll be delighted,’ he assured her. ‘Now, tell me about the snow.’ She sighed, obviously feeling rather stupid.

‘It was a deal,’ she explained. ‘Jason asked me to do it.’

‘Oh?’

‘He said he’d make a world for me if I did.’ Now, Charles stopped and turned to look at her.

‘And did he?’ She nodded.

‘He let me tell him what to make and everything.’

‘How nice of him,’ he said, hiding his surprise. ‘How... was it?’

‘Wonderful,’ Ororo confessed.

‘So you and Jason are friends?’ She shrugged, thinking that she was not certain. Nevertheless, Charles reflected, Jason obviously spoke to her in a way he did not do to the teachers, at least not to him. That was a good sign.

‘Sort of.’

‘Well, let me tell you, Ororo, that sort of friends often become proper friends,’ he told her. ‘And they’re always good to have around.’ She nodded gratefully. ‘What did you ask for?’ She thought the answer before saying it.

‘Home,’ she admitted. Charles smiled at her.

‘Kenya?’ She nodded, and in her mind he saw the illusion Jason had made for her of a majestic oasis, dreamt up by the Cairo urchin from patches of stories she remembered her parents, dead in the Suez war. It was a home she had never known, but still she felt a tug to go there.

‘Was it wrong of me?’ she whispered.

‘Of course not,’ Charles assured her. Sensing that the situation required some paternal kindness, he put a hand on her shoulder and made her look at him. ‘You’re so far away from the place you grew up. There’s no shame in longing.’

‘I prefer this,’ she admitted and looked up at the mansion. He followed her glance, and something of the blindness to his own home disappeared, making his realise what he great place it was.

‘It’s possible to have more than one home,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to give up anything.’ She hesitated, and then nodded.

‘Okay. Thank you, Professor.’

‘Good,’ he said and let go of her shoulder. ‘Come on, I want your help with something.’

They went the rest of the way to the rose-garden in silence. The snow weighed down the bushes, but here and there, a flower peeked out, adding a speck of colour in the whiteness. Ororo looked around, delighted. The students tended not to come into the rose garden; even if it was not enclosed, they understood the implicit decision that it was the professor’s own.

‘I’m a little worried for them,’ Charles explained and reached out to cup a yellow rose in his hand. The snow-flakes sparkled and melted at his touch. ‘I don’t think the cold is good for them. So, would you make this spot a little less cold? If you like, leave the rest of the grounds. People are having a lot of fun, and the usual climate will break through eventually. Could you do that?’ Ororo nodded and took a few steps away, so that she stood in the middle of the small garden. Her concentration was visible on her face as she focused and then, summoning her powers, she shouted:

‘I command the tropical winds - heat this place!’ The cold air started moving and swirled around them, and the snow melted from the flowers. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared, and Ororo’s arms fell.

‘Wonderful,’ Charles said, looking around. Now it looked simply like the garden had had some rain. At the point where the roots of the bushes stopped, the snow started again. ‘You’re getting very good at controlling your range.’ She shrugged, looking away. Charles took the opportunity to break off a white rose from a nearby bush. Offering it to her, he said: ‘Thank you, Ororo.’ Her face, usually so controlled, split into a delighted smile as she accepted it. She put her nose into it and inhaled, closing her eyes in pleasure. ‘Let’s put it in some water, and then you can go back to working on your snow-Beast,’ he told her and wheeled out of the garden. She walked beside him, still looking at the rose, cupped in her hands.

‘No-one’s ever given me a flower before,’ she said, still smiling.

‘All in good time, Ororo - you’re still young,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can never rush the proper flower-deliveries. But they’ll come - I can promise you that.’ As he spoke, he pushed the wheels of his chair around, but he was so concerned with assuring his student that he did not register what was happening before one wheel hit an icy spot and turned too much. The chair swung around violently and hit the stone-edge of the path. Finding no time to react, Charles was flung out of the chair from the impact. Ororo shouted at the top of her voice as he landed, his face in the snow.

‘Help! Professor! _Help!_ ’ Feeling dazed, Charles shook snow out of his hair. ‘Professor, are you alright?’ She had run up to him and was crouching in the snow at his side, the white rose still in her grip.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said and laughed, for want of something else to do. ‘Goodness. How careless of me.’ He looked back, assessing the situation. He had flown a rather long way, far enough that he had not hit the stone-edge himself, which was good. Any injury to his legs may be painless, but it would not heal properly. Now that he was certain that there was no danger, he pushed himself up on one elbow and, thinking that he might as well take the opportunity, gathered some snow together to make a snowball. Ororo chewed her lip, still looking worried.

‘Professor!’ Looking up, Charles caught sight of Alex and Hank running towards them. Alex was being held back by the snow, while Hank had given up his usual attempts to stay on two legs and was bounding forward on all fours at incredible speed. When he reached them, he promptly picked Charles up, as easily as if he had been a small child.

‘Are you hurt, professor?’ he said urgently.

‘I’m fine,’ Charles answered as he was put down in the wheelchair. ‘There was just an icy spot which I didn’t notice...’ Hank bristled, both figuratively and literarily.

‘You need to be careful, professor,’ he barked. ‘If you hurt yourself...’

‘Yes, yes, Hank, I know,’ Charles sighed. Alex reached them now, and before he had time to start fretting too, Charles threw the snowball he had made at him. Alex looked equally surprised and angry, but did not do anything, perhaps feeling that throwing snow at a cripple, particularly one who had just fallen out of his wheelchair, was not done. Hank muttered something about “childish” and started pushing the chair back towards the house. Charles looked past him and waved at Ororo, who waved back and, shielding the flower in her hand, went the other way.

***

Charles had just finished pulling on a dry jumper when the door to his room was pushed open and Erik rushed in, looking alarmed. When he saw the professor, he stopped and sighed with relief.

‘They told me you’d had a fall,’ he explained, trying to compose himself.

‘Oh, I took a tumble,’ Charles explained with a shrug. ‘It was rather fun, actually. I got the opportunity to throw a snowball at Alex. No harm done.’ Erik opened his mouth, as if to argue, but he added: ‘Hank insisted on looking me over, and all he prescribed me was a hot bath, a cup of cocoa and a set of dry clothes.’

‘I’m glad that someone’s sensible around here,’ Erik concluded and crossed to him, pressing a kiss onto his cheek before moving the armchair so that it faced him. Instead of sitting down in it, he rested his shoulder in Charles’ lap, his head propped against his chest, and had his legs against the back of the armchair.

‘Is that really comfortable?’ Charles asked as he stroked his hair.

‘It serves its purpose,’ Erik answered and was awarded a kiss on the head.

‘Hank was discrete enough not to ask about the origin of the bite-mark on my shoulder,’ Charles told him, a little more gravely.

‘Hm. What does he think is the reason?’ Erik asked. ‘I assume you know.’

‘Well, he doesn’t suspect,’ Charles said as he continued playing with the other man’s hair. ‘He assumes it’s a woman, of course. I must admit I’m a little insulted by the fact that he considered if it were Susanna.’

‘Susanna Gardiner?’ Erik scoffed. ‘A good girl like her doesn’t bite.’

‘Hank isn’t very well-versed in matters of love, Erik,’ Charles reminded him. ‘He rejected it, of course, but that the thought passed his mind... Do I come across as someone who’d seduce my students?’ Erik tipped his head back to look at him.

‘Of course you don’t. Although I assume that you can be friendlier to them than we can.’

‘By virtue of being a cripple, you mean.’

‘Because they don’t perceive you as a threat,’ Erik clarified. ‘I’m certain Beast doesn’t think you’d have your evil way with a fifteen-year old.’

‘Yes, he probably considered it because she’s the woman closest to me. Or girl, rather - she’s just a child.’ Charles shrugged. ‘What a ridiculous notion. Besides, I’m not the one she’s infatuated with, but perhaps Hank hasn’t realised that either.’

‘Noticed what?’

‘I had thought you’d noticed it by now,’ he said, twirling a strand of Erik’s hair around his finger. ‘She’s crushing on you.’

‘ _I’m_ not the telepath.’

‘Well, it’s fairly obvious,’ he explained. ‘All the tell-tale signs of a school-girl crush are there.’

‘Being a teenager seems like very much fuss over very little,’ Erik observed, frowning. ‘I’m almost happy I missed out on it.’ Charles chuckled and said:

‘Oh, you don’t mean that.’

‘So what did Hank ultimately think?’ Erik wondered.

‘Well, he - and the others - don’t doubt that I got lucky last night. Precisely how is something neither of them can settle on. They are trying to figure out how I smuggled a mistress into the mansion without anyone noticing.’

‘I’m looking forward to when they start trying to wheedling clues out of me,’ Erik said, smiling to himself.

‘You wouldn’t tell them, won’t you?’ Charles asked, suddenly worried. ‘The fact remains that...’ The hand which was stroking Erik’s hand stopped and then withdrew. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’ Erik got up, much more gracefully than Charles had expected possible, and settled in the armchair instead.

‘We’ll be discrete,’ he told him earnestly. ‘And if they figure them out, and they cannot accept it, then...’ He seemed to search for the words. ‘To Hell with them.’ Charles smiled halfheartedly.

‘I wish it were that easy.’

‘Charles, no-one in this house would ever betray you,’ Erik said emphatically and put a hand over his. ‘Not the children, and not the teachers. Even if they know, it would not reach outside these walls.’ Charles looked at him, smiling at the sensation that this was what he truly believed.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘If you say so.’ His mind moving on, he observed: ‘I guess that, had we had a lady teacher, it would simply have been assumed that it was her.’

‘Yes, probably,’ Erik conceded.

‘That, at least, is an advantage,’ Charles said and leaned his chin on his hand. ‘But I keep thinking that we should have a woman on the staff. If not as a teacher, then as a matron or something.’ He sensed that Erik thought the comment was a case of casual misogyny, but instead just asked:

‘How come?’

‘Well, about half our students are girls, after all, and they’re, well, a delicate age. They may feel that they need to speak to a woman on occasion.’ Erik snorted, looking entertained. ‘It’s not like we’re the ideal set of teachers,’ he explained. ‘I mean, look at us. Two doctors, one juvenile delinquent, one kid young enough to still be in high-school and one... renegade terrorist.’ Erik laughed.

‘I’m a freedom fighter, thank you.’ Smiling back, Charles said as he moved over to the window:

‘Have it your way.’

From his perch there, he could see out over the lawns where the children were playing. In the middle of the snowball fight, he spotted Jason, dressed in Raven’s old bright-red coat and matching hat. Even at this distance, he could sense the pure joy he was feeling. _All that because of a little bit of snow... How come I cannot understand that?_ Charles seldom considered the perspective he lacked. All through his life, he had had everything, or nearly so - a safe home, food, friendship, a good education. He kept assuming that by now, he had stopped taking such things for granted, but he knew that he still did not understand to be grateful. He had the audacity to watch Jason’s delight at the snow or Erik’s memories of his mother from a distance, and however much he wanted it not to be that way, there was something patronising in his approach. He seemed unable to understand the importance of those small things. But then again, the illusion Jason had made for him where he could walk had been exceptional, even disregarding the fact that the setting was gruesome. What would Charles not give to be able to rise and steer Erik in a spontaneous dance? Two years ago, he had certainly taken walking for granted. Most people probably did.

‘Charles?’ Snapping out of his thoughts, he looked up, realising now that Erik had moved to stand beside him. ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

‘I wasn’t really thinking about anything in particular,’ Charles lied. It would have been apparent even without telepathy that Erik did not believe him, but he simply nodded. ‘You know what?’ he said instead. ‘There’s a chess set in the right-hand drawer of the desk - and give me my pipe. There’s still some time before lunch.‘ Charles could feel how Erik was contemplating kissing him, but knowing that there was plenty of time for such things later, he nodded and did as he asked. They played sitting by the window, watching the children, as their hands touched across the table.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation in this chapter (won't state author and title here as that's a spoiler) is from the 1992 edition of the translation by Ralph Manheim, p. 277, and is slightly rewritten.

Betsy had strong views about a lot of things, and one of them was spying. Of course, not actual, wartime spying. That was all very well, and quite exciting. From what she had heard, her mother had done undercover work in France during the war, and she hoped that at some point, she would have an opportunity to use her psychic powers for something like that, although wishing for war was another thing she had strong views on.

No, what she did not like was snooping, and that was just what she had ended up doing now, peering up over the balustrade together with Susanna, Scott and Ororo, into the French windows.

‘I still can’t get over it,’ Susanna muttered.

‘That we’re doing this?’ Betsy suggested.

‘No. Mister Lehnsherr,’ she explained, sounding dreamy. ‘Just look at him.’

‘What _are_ you talking about?’ Scott asked, perplexed. Betsy sensed how Susanna just about restrained herself from sticking her tongue out at him, knowing it would be childish. Betsy sighed inwardly and decided that if Susanna had put her in this situation, she might as well make the best of it. From where they crouched, they had a fairly good view into the professor’s study. He and Mister Lehnsherr seemed caught up in some amicable discussion. She could see the professor gesturing to make a point, and Mister Lehnsherr nodded and offered a reply.

‘What are they saying, Betsy?’ Susanna asked and poked her in the ribs.

‘I can’t hear any better than you can,’ she reminded her friend.

‘But you could...’

‘Are you suggesting I read the professor’s thoughts?’ she asked, aghast. ‘Are you insane? He’d notice!’ Susanna looked disappointed.

‘Oh. What about Mister Lehnsherr, then?’

‘No, I wouldn’t want to,’ she admitted. Something about their new teacher unsettled her, and no amount of good looks changed that. Susanna was too infatuated to see that, of course, and seemed about to insist. ‘Considering how good friends he is with the professor, he probably has proper mental shields,’ she added. ‘Besides, it doesn’t work very well when I’m not in the same room.’ Susanna shrugged, resigning herself to it.

‘I think Betsy’s right,’ Ororo said. ‘We shouldn’t use our powers against our teachers.’

‘Thank you, Ororo,’ Betsy said and concentrated on peering through the French windows. To her own annoyance, there was a thrill to all this. Now, Mister Lehnsherr leaned against the desk and took out a cigarette. The professor was stuffing his pipe, and Betsy noticed the other teacher watching him as he lit it. That was unsettling too, but not quite in the usual way. There was just something about his eyes which she could not name or describe, but still was terribly familiar - instinctive, even. The professor raised a match, and Mister Lehnsherr leaned into it to light his cigarette. The gaze continued, and Betsy started feeling frustrated at not understanding it, like a child being told she would get it when she was older. Beside her, Susanna bit her lip as Mister Lehnsherr dragged on the cigarette.

Then, suddenly, his pale eyes were on them all. Half-crouched on the other side of the balustrade, their heads sticking up above it, they must have looked quite comical, because a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

‘Damn,’ Betsy breathed, just before:

 _Shouldn’t you be doing your homework with Mister Cassidy?_

As soon as the professor’s mental voice had appeared, it disappeared.

‘Come on,’ Betsy said, her mind still tingling from having been touched by such a powerful telepath. She took Susanna’s hand and grabbed Scott by the collar and pulled them away from the balustrade. When she looked over her shoulder to check that Ororo was following them, she saw Mister Lehnsherr watching them from the window, cigarette between his fingers and a knowing look on his face. Then he turned away and pulled the curtains.

****

However inappropriate the comparison was, to Charles the following fortnight felt much like he imagined it must feel like being newly-wed. Ororo’s weather manipulations had seemed coincidentally symbolic, because the lightness of heart the first snow of winter brought with it, when the dark nights were lit up by the sparkle of the snow-crystals, was much like the feeling of their new-found love. The feeling remained even when the snow melted. It made the most tedious task worthwhile. The previous oppressive atmosphere had been lifted, and everyone seemed to understand that something was different, even if not everyone knew why.

Both Erik and Charles had a more or less subconscious need to make up for lost time. They took up playing chess daily and had long conversations after dinner, smoking and sipping scotch together, as they had when they had been training. But now they did not part ways after that, but went to bed, occasionally just for comfort, often for more carnal pleasures. In the next two weeks, Erik left a series of sublimely painful bite marks on Charles’ body, and quite often hickeys of varying obviousness. Charles was more careful with leaving marks on Erik, because if there were signs that also he had a mistress, awkward questions would soon be asked about this coincidence.

The most serious consequence thus far was that Erik had slept on Charles’ arm and made it a little stiff. All it meant was that every so often, he had to stop and flex his wrist to try to loosen up the joint, careful not to do himself an injury when wheeling himself around the mansion. In the afternoon, most of the stiffness had worn off. Charles was on his way to his study, thinking about how glad he was that he had interrupted Erik’s class preparations of some boring prose text he was making his German class read the previous night. He stopped and flexed his wrist, allowing himself to reminisce.

The other mind in the corridor seemed to launch itself into his with sudden force. His memory of last night’s tryst was interrupted by the thought: _they’re going to kill us all, kill us all, every single one, and we can kill them back but they will still win..._ The turmoil of that thought swelled within him, and for a moment he felt that other person’s despair in the roots of his soul. When he looked up, he saw no-one there.

‘Hello?’ he called and wheeled slowly forward. Now when his mind was not elsewhere, he heard something - the unmistakable sound of a child crying. Quickening his pace, he headed for the doorway it was coming from. There he was, pressed against the wall, as if trying to hide.

‘Jason?’ Jason did not look up, but only hugged his knees, his shoulders shaking. Pictures of death were swarming his mind. ‘Jason, what’s wrong?’ Charles rolled a little closer and touched his shoulder. Now, Jason looked up at him, mismatched eyes shining with large tears. Strands of hair, long enough to make him look entirely like a girl now, hung over his face, and, self-conscious despite his distress, he pushed them back behind his ear. ‘What’s upset you?’ Charles asked solicitously and reached out both hands towards him. Sniffing pitifully, Jason put his hands in the professor’s and was helped to his feet.

‘We’re all going to die,’ he whispered, before his voice broke and he started crying anew. His sobs almost made what he said next inaudible. ‘I won’t even be able to scare them away, because they’re already so scared and it won’t hurt them to be more scared.’ As the boy gasped for breath between sobs, Charles’ initial sympathy became real concern.

‘There, there,’ he said and, seeing little else to do, pulled Jason into a hug. To his surprise, he put his arms around his neck and cried against his shoulder. Had it not been for the fact that Jason would feel him reading his thoughts, he would have drawn the answers he wanted directly out of his mind, but now, he simply patted the child’s hair and hushed him. After a minute or two, Jason calmed down enough that he dared to let go of him. ‘Now tell me,’ he told him, still holding his hand - he looked like he needed the support. ‘What’s made you so upset?’

‘They’re going to kill us,’ Jason answered, suddenly sounding angry, as if it frustrated him that his teacher did not understand.

‘Who is going to kill us? And us - mutants?’ Charles pressed. The boy nodded. ‘No-one’s going to kill anyone,’ he told him and looked him in the eyes. ‘We’re safe here.’

‘That’s not what he told us.’

He looked at the boy, surprised. Fighting off his first assumption, he asked:

‘Who told you all this?’ Giving a sob which was more of a hiccup, Jason spoke.

‘Mister Lehnsherr.’

Jason’s hand fell out of his teacher’s grip. Charles felt himself going cold, but found the calm to press Jason’s shoulder and say:

‘You know what? Mister Summers is in the garden on the back. See if you can go help him with his chores, eh? I’m sure you’re wonderful at gardening.’ Jason bit his lip, and did not look convinced.

‘I’m scared,’ he finally confessed.

‘You’ll be safe with Alex,’ he told him. ‘Go now - it’ll all be fine.’ Jason hesitated for a moment longer, then he nodded and left, heading for the back door. Charles waited until he was out of sight before he let out the breath he had been holding. Then, composing himself, he set off.

He found Erik in the drawing room, deep in concentration on the Baudelaire he was reading. When he heard Charles’ approach, he looked up, and a smile spread over his features.

‘Hello.’ Noticing Charles’ grave face, he frowned and closed his book. ‘Charles?’ The headmaster made his way across the room to him and looked him in the eye.

‘What have you been telling my students?’ The amity in his eyes went out.

‘What are you referring to?’ he asked stiffly.

‘I just found one of the children crying in the corridor,’ Charles said and pointed in the direction he had come, trying to keep his temper. ‘He said that you’d been telling them that “they’re going to kill us all”.’ No acknowledgement could be seen in Erik’s face, but neither was there any refutation there. ‘Well?’ Charles asked brusquely. ‘Did you say that?’

Erik sighed and put aside his book.

‘I seem to have been misquoted.’

‘“Misquoted”?’ Charles repeated. Erik looked up at him, with that look of combined anger and disappointment, as if he thought that he missed some crucial part of the puzzle. ‘Let me see what you said,’ he urged and raised two fingers halfway to his temple. Erik stared at them, as if aware what a powerful weapon that mannerism was part of. Despite his sigh, he nodded.

‘Very well.’

Charles put his fingers to his temple and plunged.

 _‘Prose, sir?’ asks Susanna and looks up at him as he hands her the sheet._

 _‘We’ve spend almost three weeks on Goethe,’ he explains, speaking as he handed out the texts. ‘You should read some prose also - and learn that not everything is of the quality of Goethe.’ He glances at the text in distaste and adds: ‘But the literary value of a text is not always what makes people read it.’ As he returns o the desk, the scraping of pencils and the whisper of dictionary pages can be heard. He takes his usual place, leaning against the desk and watching the class. Many of them seem to struggle with the text, but a few already look disturbed. He cannot help smiling, not trying to conceal its bitter edge._

 _The translation takes longer than it usually does, and the children’s voices are not as strong as when they usually read their translation._

 _‘“He has always lived in the states of other peoples, and there formed his own state, which, to be sure, was often under the disguise of ‘community’ as long as outward circumstances made a complete revelation of his nature seem unwise.”’_

 _‘“But as soon as he felt strong enough to do without the protective cloak, he always dropped the veil and suddenly became what so many of the others previously did not want to believe and see.”’_

 _‘“His life as a parasite in the body of other nations and states explains a characteristic which has caused him to be called the ‘great master of lying’.”_

 _‘“Existence”, eum...’_

 _‘“Impels.”’_

 _‘“...impels him to lie, and to lie always, just as it compels the inhabitants of the northern countries to wear warm clothes.”’_

 _‘“His life within other peoples can only endure for an length of time if he succeeds in arousing the opinion, that he is not a people but a 'community', though of a special sort.”’_

 _‘“This is the first great lie.”’_

 _‘“In order to carry on his existence as a parasite on other peoples, he is forced to deny his inner nature.”’_

 _‘“Things can go so far that large parts of the host people will end by seriously believing that he is really a Frenchman or an Englishman, a German or an Italian.”’_

 _Ten pairs of wide eyes stare up at him. Their pale faces speak of innocence._

 _‘Well?’ he asks. ‘Whom does this text speak of?’ The children look at each other, until one of them dares to put her hand up._

 _‘Is it about mutants?’ He smiles, despite himself. If only he could protect their naivety, he would, but there is no way._

 _‘No.’ He stands up and looks out over them. ‘It’s about Jews.’ The shock in their faces grow, as if they can already anticipate the conclusions he is about to draw. ‘But it makes little difference,’ he admits and starts walking up and down in front of the backboard. ‘The rhetoric used is much the same. Hate is nothing new. It has existed, it exists and it will exist in countless forms. And hate is born out of fear - for that which is different, or for that which is stronger.’_

Charles broke the link between them. For a long while, he simply stared down in his own knee, wishing what he has just witnessed not to be a real memory, only a few minutes old...

‘My God,’ he finally said and forced himself to look up at him. ‘You gave them an excerpt of _Mein Kampf_ to translate. Why would you do such a thing, Erik?’ He simply stared back at him, face unmoving, until:

‘They need to know what awaits them.’

‘What “awaits” them?’ Charles repeated, bewilderment turning into anger. ‘ _Awaits_ them!? Nothing _awaits_ them!’

‘If you think that, you are fooling yourself, Charles,’ Erik told him. ‘You have stayed shut up in this mansion for years - you do not know how the rest of the world treats us.’ Breathing in at the accusation, Charles answered:

‘I know enough. I know what people think.’

‘So you know that there are places where anyone suspected of being a mutant is attacked, sometimes killed,’ Erik answered, his face the grim mask of an agitator. ‘Anyone under suspicion is evicted from their home and fired from their job. Do you know, Charles, that there are mutants - dozens of them - hiding in the sewers of New York, because they cannot live on the surface? How long until there are hundreds of them? How long until the government makes what is already an informal strategy an official policy?’

‘That won’t happen,’ Charles said, but Erik shook his head violently and jabbed a finger at him.

‘It is already happening, Charles. They hate us. You know that - you have felt it. And mark my words, they will act on that hate. You are simply in denial, because it does not fit into your naive way of looking at the world. You keep telling yourself that the little mutant boys and girls will be able to join hands with the little human boys and girls as sisters and brothers, but it will not happen, and if we are not prepared, they will not stop until they have wiped every last one of us off the face of the earth.’

‘I appointed you as a teacher on the explicit condition that you taught in accordance to the ideological beliefs of this school,’ Charles said, fighting to keep himself from shouting. ‘I will not have you spread mutant supremacist propaganda!’

‘Listen to yourself, Charles,’ Erik shouted. ‘I try to tell them the truth, and you brand it an unacceptable, extremist stand-point, which I am not allowed to tell them. You may not even realise it yourself, but because you do not protest, you have become the lackey of this oppression.’

‘How dare you?’ he retorted. ‘I protect my own - that is what this school is about...’

‘And you teach them to love those who would kill them, as if it might subdue their hatred, when in fact, it will lead them to their death, if they are not forewarned,’ Erik added. ‘Humanity is kept alive by bestial acts - turning the other cheek will not change that.’

‘I will not train children as soldiers!’ Charles shouted. ‘They need to be allowed their childhood...’

‘ _Allowed_ their childhood?’ Erik repeated, as if the idea was preposterous. ‘We are facing a war, Charles!’

‘That changes nothing,’ he told him. ‘You have behaved despicably. You’ve upset my students. Why do you not understand, Erik, how young they are? They are only children!’

‘So we should lie to them? he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. ‘There is no time for innocence now.’

‘The oldest child in your class is fifteen - the youngest only ten,’ Charles said and stared him in the eye. ‘How can you think that telling them such things...?’ The sensation of Erik’s anger transcending its own limits and becoming rage hit Charles, and the fire in his eyes made him fall silent. When Erik spoke, his emotion was only betrayed by the tremble of his voice.

‘When I was eight years old, younger than any of the students, I saw our entire street destroyed, every window smashed. I watched as they trampled our scriptures underfoot, as they burned the temple to the ground. I saw them beat people beyond recognition and arrest men for the destruction they themselves had caused.’

‘Erik...’ Charles said, but he pressed on.

‘When I was fourteen, I was strapped to a table and tortured, every day for a year, until my captors were satisfied with my tricks. Did they take into consideration, that I was a child? Did Schmidt and his men even spare it a thought? It did not save me - had it not been for that twisted gate, they would have led me to the gas-chambers at once, but even that would not have kept me alive in the long run. All that saved me was that the doctors fled before the Red Army reached the camp. As soon as Schmidt had broken me completely, all I would be to them was interesting dissection material. Do you imagine, Charles, that it will stay the mutant-haters’ hand, if their victims are children? Will they not want to get rid of them as soon as possible, before they can spread their genes any further? And if they keep them alive, what will stop the humans from doing to them what was done to me, things that make death look like a desirable alternative? And despite all this, you are telling me that these children, in this sheltered place, should not know about this threat?’

Charles searched for something to say, but in vain. He simply closed his mouth and swallowed, feeling with sudden acuteness how he had let his emotions override his sense back in September.

‘You’re not fit to be a teacher, Erik,’ he told him, calmer now. ‘I should have realised that before. You must understand, this isn’t about you and your trauma...’

‘No, it is not about me - that is precisely the point,’ Erik said lividly. ‘It is about what is happening _now_ , and what will happen to the children you take in and then keep isolated, without contact with the real world, telling them that they have nothing to fear...’

‘They should not have anything to fear!’

‘But they _do_ ,’ Erik exclaimed. ‘Is this naivety speaking, Charles, or simply wishful thinking?’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ Charles announced and unlocked the wheels.

‘No,’ Erik said, his voice forceful, and reached out, grabbing his shoulder. Mixed in the anger, there was something else - a wish that Charles would understand, or at least listen. ‘We need to have this discussion...’

‘Well, I’m not interested,’ Charles said, shrugged his hand off and started wheeling himself towards the door. ‘I know everything you’re going to say, and I am not going to stay here and be lectured by someone so incapable of putting things into perspective...’ Suddenly his chair stopped with a jolt, and for a moment he completely lost his bearings, almost falling forward. The brakes had been flicked as the wheels moved. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Erik lowering his hand. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ he shouted at him, unlocked the wheels again and left the room.

***

Charles settled on not leaving his room for the rest of the afternoon. He had wanted to check on the students, but he did not want to risk running into Erik. Instead, he settled by his window and toured the minds of his students, looking for signs of disquiet. Where he found it, he smoothed it over, leaving the quiet assurance that they were all safe.

But were they? A nagging worry that perhaps Erik had a point started to grow. His words had hurt; the notion that Charles lived in his own, privileged world where oppression of mutants did not penetrate made him angry, as did the accusations of naivety and hypocrisy. Erik’s standpoint was certainly not uncompromised. His childhood had made him develop an _idée fixe_ about the horrors he had witnessed, and it was not surprising that he feared that it might happen again. Then again, Charles knew that reacting with anger made it less likely that he would take the criticism to be relevant.

Perhaps he should listen to what he had to say. In reality, he did not know how the government would end up handling mutants. Their position this far had been vague, while the public’s had been harsh. He had considered taking the debate with them, but protecting the school had felt more important. But the school housed only a fraction of the mutant population. He was doing little to help those others. The children he had taken in needed protection, sometimes even from their own parents, but was he using that small fact to cover up his other failures and to keep his conscience clean? But what else could he do? Their situation was precarious at best, and the risk of being revealed was too big.

He replayed the secondary memory of the lesson. Now when the initial shock was gone, it all seemed much less dramatic. What Erik said of the theory of hate were all things he agreed with, but when he spoke of hate against mutants, the constant implication of the inferiority of humans was there. His words were passionate, but he never became personal. Not even when he spoke of Auschwitz did he speak of his own experiences. Still it could never be a historical event to him, and he could never treat it as such. He would never be so emotionally detached, and Charles knew by now that to Erik, that was crucial. If he stopped feeling it, he felt it would be denying it, and he would lose the pieces of himself from before the war too. But for all Charles’ insight into his friend’s psyche, it did not change the fact that he had upset the children. If he was right or not was beside the point. When they had discussed the Goethe poem about death, it had worked. This time, he had crossed the line.

But all the same Charles knew that he too had acted unprofessionally. He had told him that he was not fit to teach, and that he was spreading propaganda, and worse things. Thinking back, he was appalled at how patronising his words sounded. Everything had been so wonderful the past weeks, so that he had almost forgot about their many disagreements, and now when they confronted him, he had treated Erik - his friend, his equal, his brother - like a petulant child with a silly obsession, with none of the respect and care he deserved.

A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts.

‘Come in!’ Hank stepped in. Charles knew that he was there to announce that dinner was ready, but instead of letting him speak, he said: ‘Come closer, Hank.’ Hank did, with an obedience Charles had never reflected on before. It was only Erik who did not act like that around him. The Beast stopped beside his chair, and an awkward silence settled.

‘Is anything the matter, professor?’ he asked finally.

‘Isn’t always something the matter?’ Charles answered and sighed. He looked out of the window, not certain what he wanted to admit to. They were silent for a long time, and just when he felt Hank grow restless, he broke the quiet. ‘Why is everything so damned complicated, Hank?’ He opened his mouth and then closed it again, obviously lost for words. ‘Everything seems so simple on paper,’ Charles explained. ‘Then in reality... it’s all just a muddled grey. I don’t think I can tell what’s right and wrong anymore.’

‘It’s all a question of definition, I expect. It is all in the eye of the beholder,’ Hank said. Charles smiled joylessly. Hank’s approach to anything was philosophical; he was well-read, but did not yet have the experience to use it properly. Still, his opinion was valuable.

‘Hank, do you think I’m a hypocrite?’ Hank looked shocked at the question.

‘No,’ he said, surprised. ‘Of course not. You of all people...’

‘Well,’ Charles said, refraining from pointing out that Hank may just have seen one side of him. Instead he asked: ‘How are the children?’

‘They’re fine,’ Hank answered, perplexed at his differing questions. ‘Why... why wouldn’t they be?’ Charles shook his head at the question.

‘Their safety goes before everything else, doesn’t it?’

‘Why, yes.’ Hank was starting to look properly bewildered now.

‘Even over personal... predispositions,’ Charles stated. He knew that was true - the children came first, then Erik. He must not let himself lose sight of that. Turning again to Hank, he said: ‘You’ll keep an eye on them, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Hank stuttered.

‘And would you please lock the gates and the doors and activate the security systems now at once?’ It would not keep Erik in, but it was worth a try.

‘If you’d like me to. But why...?’

‘Do it,’ he told him.

‘Professor, there’s dinner...’ Charles shook his head.

‘I won’t be coming down to dinner tonight, I think.’ Now Hank’s eyes narrowed.

‘Are you really alright, professor?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said and forced another smile. ‘I just feel rather too tired to go through the formalities of the dinner table.’ Refraining from answering that there were very little formalities at dinner, Hank stepped back and nodded.

‘I’ll bring up a tray for you,’ he told him and, backing away respectfully, left. When the door had closed, Charles closed his eyes and placed his fingers against his temple. The next breath, he was inside Erik’s mind, and felt the turmoil of his thoughts as he walked around his room, collecting things and throwing them into an open suitcase.

Charles broke the contact, letting his hand fall. What he had seen made him feel sick. _He’s leaving, and it’s all my fault..._ He should do something, but he did not know what. He could of course just make him stay, as he had promised that he would not do that night he had tried to leave the CIA building, but where would such manipulation end? Before he knew it, he may end up forcing him to love him through those same means. The most obvious course of action would be to just go to talk to him, but he did not dare. So he settled on watching from afar, zoning in and out of his mind to make sure that he was still there.

When the clock on the mantlepiece struck eleven, Charles had become restless enough to decide to leave his room, still with no real objective. He passed through the corridors, careful to avoid anyone who was still awake. His unplanned meanderings lead him past the student dormitories. The dreaming minds lay like cotton-wool against his, and a sudden urge to see the children struck him. As silently as he could, he opened the door of one of the dorms and went inside. The room was dark, and the shapes in the row of beds were all still. Closest to the door was Ororo’s bed. She lay with her hand under her cheek, the dream of flying high over the mansion tugging at the corners of her mouth. The sheet had ridden down over her shoulder, and carefully, Charles pulled it up over her again. What was this violent need to protect these children? Had he really become so personally invested in the school? His injury meant that he would never have any children of his own, but suddenly, sitting in the dark, quiet dormitory, it seemed not to matter. Each and every one of these children meant that much to him - they were his sons and daughters by virtue of their shared gifts.

But he could not keep them safe on his own. He tried to imagine going back to how things were before Erik returned. Just the thought of it made his chest contract. No, he could not let that happen. He wanted ( _needed_ ) him to stay - if it came to it, he would beg. _Time to face the music, Charlie,_ he thought and gave an inward sigh. Casting a last glance at the sleeping children, he left the dormitory.

All the way to Erik’s room, he tried to find a way to compose himself, but his nerves were getting the better of him. When he gathered his courage and knocked on his door, the knock sounded weak, as though he were half hoping that he would not notice it. That did not happen; the doorknob turned and the door opened. Erik was standing on the other side of the room, his hand raised, controlling the metal.

‘May I come in?’ Charles asked.

‘You usually help yourself,’ Erik said curtly. Charles entered, and stopped just a little way in.

‘Erik, I’m sorry that I...’

‘Watch out.’ The door shut suddenly, and the only thing which stopped it from smashing into the wheelchair was Erik flicking two fingers so that it rolled out of the way. Charles grabbed the armrests instinctively, deciding to leave it to another time to tell him how much he disliked when he controlled the metal in his chair, if there would be another time. As if he was not there, Erik continued putting books in piles on his desk.

‘Erik, the way I spoke to you... it was unacceptable. Please forgive me.’ Erik’s movements stopped.

‘You know that forgiveness does not come easily to me, Charles,’ he said gravely. His voice sounded weary, and his eyes remained turned away. Charles took in his distinctive accent, the set of his shoulders, the hands resting on the books in front of him. Love swelled inside him, threatening to give birth to desperation. _This can’t be how it ends between us - not so soon. Not after everything we’ve been through - not after all that waiting..._

‘I’m sorry that I offended you,’ he said out loud. ‘I said some awful things. I was very inconsiderate. I’m sorry.’ Erik looked down at his hands, as if wanting something to look at which was not Charles. The pose signaled that he did not want Charles to be there, but there was conflict in his mind. ‘Please don’t leave,’ Charles whispered, voice trembling. Erik held out a little longer, then sighed and seemed to relax a little more.

‘It’s funny,’ he said, still not looking at him. ‘I have heard so much abuse, but somehow, it never touched me.’ He started walking around the desk slowly, then stopped by the window, hands in pockets. ‘But when it comes from you... it hits home. You are the only person who can offend me, Charles.’ Now he turned to him and looked at him earnestly. ‘How is that possible?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, sounding choked, even if they both knew the answer. Charles was the only one who was truly close to him. “Brother” implied “family”, and family was the thing Erik valued highest. Longing for those mutual bonds had been what had lured him back. For the first time for hours, he allowed himself to hope that he would not leave after all.

‘So you came here to tell me that you’ve changed your mind?’ Erik asked. Whatever he had said about forgiveness, his anger felt less prominent now.

‘I still stand by what I said,’ Charles told him. ‘But I regret the way I said it.’

‘Then what did you not mean?’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that you acted because of a compulsion, or that you are of unsound mind.’ Erik shrugged.

‘Under the circumstances, both those opinions would not surprise or offend me when coming from a doctor,’ he said simply.

‘But from me? I’m more than that to you, after all.’ Erik glanced up at him. He looked almost amused. ‘What I mean was that I didn’t intend it to sound patronising,’ he said. ‘I believe that it rather sounded so.’

‘But you stand by that I should not have taken up the issue,’ Erik stated. Charles sighed, in two minds about it.

‘The way you spoke of hate directed at mutants was polemical - you can’t disagree on that,’ he finally said. Then he admitted: ‘I’ve asked so often, but I think I’m starting to understand. Why you returned, that is.’ Now, Erik truly smiled.

‘You are a fool, Charles Xavier,’ he said.

‘And you’re an egoist.’ Silence fell. ‘Where would you go?’ It came out hushed, and sounding much more timid than he had wanted. Erik looked down in the floor and then, slowly, started approaching him. When he sat down on the bed, so that they faced each other, he still looked uncertain. _I have nowhere to go._

‘I think...’ he said slowly. ‘It may have been a... rash decision.’ For a moment, a sliver of hesitation lingered, but then it went out, and Erik raised a hand. The suitcase lifted and scattered clothes over the floor. Charles laughed, and as he did so, the tears which had been in his eyes fell. Erik leaned in and kissed his cheeks, lapping at the trails they left. Then he moved so that they were nose to nose. They glanced up momentarily, the eyes so close becoming a blur of colour, before they kissed. When they broke the kiss, they kept their faces close a moment.

‘Don’t you feel like you’re caged in?’ Erik asked quietly. ‘That thing makes it difficult even to put my arm around you.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Charles sighed. ‘Budge up, then.’ Erik did, and Charles moved onto the bed. There was a few moments when they tried to figure out how they fitted together, as if the argument had made them forget, but finally they settled, Charles with his head on his chest and Erik with an arm around him.

‘I care for them as well, you know,’ Erik assured him. ‘After all, they are the beginnings of a new species as much as we are, and they will be more glorious than us, given time. I didn’t plan that class for any self-gain. I believe that they need to hear it, to strengthen them.’

‘Just don’t do it again,’ Charles asked. ‘At least not without talking to me before - and try to be a little more sensitive.’

‘The children aren’t porcelain dolls, Charles,’ Erik observed and stroked Charles’ hair.

‘It doesn’t mean you have to try to break them to prove it.’

‘There will always be things which we do not agree on,’ he observed. ‘Despite everything, I... treasure that. I think it strengthens us.’

‘And exhausts us,’ Charles said and chuckled. ‘At least we don’t smash the china. That would be pathetically domestic.’

‘No, let’s not start breaking things,’ Erik agreed.

‘You’d tear down the house,’ Charles said. ‘In all seriousness, though, I’m glad that no-one else saw us shouting at each other in the drawing room.’

‘Not the best place for it.’ They were silent for quite some time, until Charles felt himself start to drift off.

‘I’m sorry, Erik, I’m going to fall asleep here and now if I’m not careful,’ he said, propping himself up. ‘I should get back to my room...’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Erik told him and pulled him back down. ‘Stay here.’

‘But...’

‘I want you to.’ Charles sighed, resigned but very pleased. His eyelids were rapidly growing too heavy, and he surrendered, letting himself slip into oblivion.

***

 _The heat from the ovens hits him in waves. His hand rises. The metal tugs at him, and he at the metal. If only he can grab that sensation, he can stop all this, but he is held back, strapped down, trapped..._

Charles woke with a start. Beside him, Erik was writhing and gasping, torn between sleeping and waking.

‘Erik,’ he said and pulled him closer. ‘Erik, it’s alright. Calm down. It was just a nightmare.’ As he stroked his hair, Erik’s breath grew calmer.

‘I never seem to get used to it,’ he said and drew back, rubbing the tears out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. Charles drew himself up to a sitting position, watching him with worry. ‘Did you see?’ Erik asked, voice guarded.

‘I dreamt it,’ he admitted. ‘It’s one of the things which happen when I sleep close to someone else.’

‘You’ve been seeing my dreams for two weeks?’ Erik asked. He sounded vexed, which Charles could not really blame him for.

‘I can’t control my telepathy when I’m asleep,’ he explained. ‘Besides, it’s usually fairly passive. I’m aware of them, but they’re never a strong as my own dreams. I’m sorry that I can’t seem to help to intrude.’

‘It is very like you, Charles,’ Erik sighed. ‘I am sorry that you have to see those things. For both our sakes.’ Charles reached out to cover his hand with his, and Erik looked up at him. An angel passed. Charles was just thinking of moving closer to kiss him, when a sudden knock interrupted them.

‘Erik! Erik! Wake up!’ Hank was on the other side of the door, banging it so hard it shook. ‘It’s an emergency!’ They looked at each other, surprised.

‘You’d better take that,’ Charles whispered, and Erik got up.

‘Erik! It’s important - wake up!’ Hank was still shouting when Erik made it to the door and opened it.

‘What’s the ruckus?’ From the bed, Charles could not see Hank, but he could sense his agitation. He answered so quickly that it became just a stream of words.

‘It’s the professor - he’s not in his room - he’s not in the house.’ He paused to draw a shaking breath. ‘I should have realised something was wrong! He acted so odd last night - didn’t come down to dinner, asked me to lock the doors, told me to look after the children. Jesus Christ...’

‘Hank, I think you’re overreacting,’ Erik said, sounding reasonable.

‘Don’t you see how this looks?’ Hank exclaimed. ‘Erik, we have to look for him! He could be hurt - he could be...’

 _Erik, move the wheelchair,_ Charles thought. Unblinkingly, Erik flicked his hand and the chair unlocked and rolled away from the bed. As soon as he heard the breaks click into place again, Charles shouted:

‘Hank, I’m here!’ Erik stepped away from the door, and gave Hank a clear view of the room. When he spotted the professor half-lying on the bed, his yellow eyes grew and his mouth fell open.

‘Professor!’ he exclaimed, crestfallen. ‘What... what are you doing on Erik’s bed?’

‘It’s all rather embarrassing,’ he said, giving him a charming smile as he projected a plausible cover-story into Erik’s mind. ‘Erik and I were having a late night chat...’

‘We’d had a bit to drink,’ Erik added helpfully.

‘And, well, I fell asleep,’ Charles concluded.

‘I didn’t want to wake him by taking him back to his room, so I let him sleep on my bed, and I slept in the armchair.’ Hank looked from Charles to Erik and back.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. I’m... I’m sorry, professor.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said quickly. ‘Be a good chap and fetch me an aspirin.’

‘Sure,’ Hank said and disappeared. Erik closed the door slowly, exhaling.

‘Do you need an aspirin?’ he asked and returned to the bed to throw himself onto it beside Charles.

‘No, but it added to the impression that I was dead drunk yesterday,’ he answered, ‘which is much better than what he thought before, which seemed to be that I had gone loopy and pitched myself into the duckpond.’

‘He believed us?’ Erik asked, and when he received a nod, said: ‘Well saved.’

‘A little narrowly, though,’ Charles sighed. Hank was not stupid, and eventually, he must figure it out. They were already becoming careless.

For a moment, Charles felt the quarrel from last night hover between them, threatening to start anew. But he was intent on keeping it all together - the school, his own morals, whatever it was that he and Erik shared. In the end, he was the one to give in, letting it go in favour of domestic peace. He settled on concentrating for that which they could unite against, instead of the things they disagreed on, trying to push the disappointment in himself to one side.


	8. Chapter 8

‘I don’t understand what goes on in the mornings anymore,’ Hank admitted. The breakfast preparations, at least, were the same as they had always been. He had just finished helping Alex with putting out enough porridge and jam and bread and orange juice to feed the students, and was working on the teachers’ cooked breakfast.

‘Is that because you haven’t worked out a formula or something for frying eggs?’ Alex asked and lit a cigarette under the kitchen fan. Hank took it from his hand and crushed it in the sink.

‘No,’ he answered, feeling annoyed. ‘I just wonder why people’s habits have changed so suddenly. When he first came here, Erik would always go running before breakfast. Now, he does it after classes. Also, I think he used to walk around in the house in the night...’

‘...Because he’s a creep,’ Alex concluded.

‘The point is that he doesn’t do it anymore,’ Hank explained. He was not entirely certain why he was talking to Alex about this, but he had to vent for someone, and Sean probably had not noticed any of it. ‘And then there’s the professor...’ Alex laughed.

‘You’re just jealous because he’s obviously getting more than any of us others,’ he said. ‘Not that getting more than you is much of an achievement.’ Ignoring the jibe, Hank asked:

‘But Alex, whom is he...?’

‘Fucking,’ Alex suggested.

‘I was going to go for something a little less explicit.’

‘Don’t ask me,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It must be someone living nearby. I mean, there’s no-one at the school it could be. Sean and I reckon she’s getting in through the tunnel...’

‘Overly complicated,’ Hank pointed out. ‘It just doesn’t make proper sense. I mean, he must have met this girl in some way, and he barely ever leaves the grounds. Something’s not right...’ He broke off at the noise form the upper floor. Even Alex, whose hearing was not as acute, sighed.

‘And there goes the bedsprings,’ he muttered. ‘You know, there’s an easy way of finding out who it is.’

‘Are you suggesting barging in?’ Hank asked, feeling his face going hot.

‘We wouldn’t have to - we could just wait outside the door and see who comes out.’

‘If you’re right about the whole tunnel idea, what says that there isn’t a hidden door in the master bedroom?’ Alex shrugged, defeated. He weighed from one foot to the other and then asked:

‘Hey, Beast, how does he... y’know?’

‘What?’ Hank said, intent on flipping the eggs.

‘I was just thinking, with the prof’s spine. I mean, can he still...?’

‘Alex Summers, you should have your brain cleaned with bleach!’ Alex sniggered and took out another cigarette. ‘You’re not smoking that in here,’ he told him, glad for the distraction. ‘Tobacco is very harmful, you know. There’s been studies. I keep trying to tell people...’

‘It can’t be dangerous,’ Alex snorted and crossed to the window. ‘You’re just trying to ruin other people’s fun. If you’re going to be such a pain in the arse, I’ll lean out of the window to smoke it.’ Cigarette already between his lips, he opened the window. He struck the match at the same moment as the explosion.

It was a sudden loud roar, which made Alex back away and Hank grab the cupboards, afraid that they might fall down. They exchanged looks, their usual antagonism gone and replaced by the efficiency of battle. Having had a moment to analyse the sound, Hank realised that it was not close at all. When he looked out of the window, he saw a pillar of smoke in the distance. Alex stopped by his side, watching the flames which were sprouting.

‘What the hell just happened?’

***

When there was a knock on the door to the study, Charles was glad for the distraction. This morning had not been productive so far, but he did not know what unsettled him so. Perhaps it had been the explosions in the morning - even if it was only an accident, it was not pleasant, and maybe the fact that it had interrupted a spontaneous morning tryst was part of it too. Erik had of course assumed that it was an attack, and when they had found out that it was an fire at the nearby gas-works, going back to bed had not seemed like an option.

Now, when Susanna entered the room, carrying the loaded tea-tray, he put the cap on his pen and said:

‘You’re a darling, Susanna. Just what I needed.’ He moved over to the table by the French windows and asked: ‘You’re between classes, aren’t you?’ Susanna put down the tea-tray and nodded. ‘Won’t you have some tea with me?’ She blushed scarlet, but sat down, her shoulders tense and her smile expectant.

‘Thank you, professor,’ she said, when he handed her the teacup. Charles could not help feeling pleasure at having their roles reserved for once, so that he could do a practical chore for her. On occasion, being an imposing headmasterly figure was tedious.

‘Did you hear the bang this morning?’ he wondered as he poured himself a cup.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said, at once excited. ‘Just when I was getting ready for breakfast. What was it?’

‘On the radio, they said that a fire had broken out in the gas works in Bedford,’ Charles explained. ‘It’s about ten miles away, so there’s nothing really to worry about.’

‘But it must have been huge,’ she said, sounding awed. He nodded.

‘Yes, quite possibly. I’m sure I’ve heard some smaller explosions since,’ he said. ‘I just hope that they evacuated in time.’ Then, leaving the topic of local news, he gave her a fatherly smile and asked: ‘So how are your classes, Susanna?’ The girl put down the cup on the saucer and said:

‘Wonderful.’

‘You’re taking German, aren’t you?’

Both German and French,’ she admitted, looking both proud and a little embarrassed at the same time. Charles nodded sagely; he had already known that.

‘How are you finding it, then? All that grammar to be learnt?’

‘French is easier,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but we haven’t gotten as far. I don’t think the French group is very good at languages.’ That had been what Erik had said too, Charles remembered.

‘And what about your German classes? What are you reading?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Schiller,’ she said and lit up. ‘I love Schiller. We read _An die Freuden_ last time, and it’s so beautiful.’

‘I haven’t read it,’ Charles admitted.

‘Oh, you should, sir,’ she said, and then stopped. ‘Although I don’t know if you know German.’

‘I do, but it’s a little patchy,’ he told her, not untruthfully. ‘I’m sure that Mister Lehnsherr would give me some pointers.’ Susanna smiled at the name, as if by Pavlovian association.

‘I - I enjoy Mister Lehnsherr’s classes very much,’ she said, her embarrassment at finding herself admitting it making her trip over her words.

‘It’s wonderful what an inspiring teacher can do,’ Charles said simply, and slipped into Susanna’s mind briefly. The unorthodox class which had upset Jason so much had certainly made an impression on her, but even if it had shaken her, it had only left her impressed at Erik’s power with words. She and Betsy, the young British psychic, had talked about it, and it had only made them respect him more. _So passionate_ , had been Susanna’s dreamy conclusion. It calmed him that the incident, now almost two weeks away, was losing its strength so rapidly, both with her and with other students whose minds he had read. Another side of him was aware of that that made him something of a coward, unwilling to face the problems which were real, but he invoked the safety of his students as his main argument in the debate with himself.

He was just going to ask Susanna about her plans for the future, when there was a sharp knock on the door and Sean, closely followed by Hank, entered.

‘Professor, you should hear this,’ he said and crossed to the radio. Susanna looked around, bewildered at their abrupt entrance. Charles watched Sean finding the right settings on the radio, feeling his heart sinking. They were projecting loudly enough for him to know already what was happening.

 _‘...a truly devastating event. A tragedy.’_

 _‘Thank you for those comments. As we reported before this interview, previous statements that the explosions at the Bedford Gas Works were accidental have been refuted by police, who have made a statement that just before the explosions, a tape with threats against the gas works as well as several other targets in New York state was delivered to the police. In light of this, the explosions, which this far have left twenty-three employees dead and several more injured, are being treated as an attack from mutant terrorists. The death count is expected to rise. Now, to our other news...’_

Sean turned the volume down and they looked at each other.

‘Susanna, I think you should go and work on your Schiller,’ Charles said kindly. She looked like she was going to argue for a moment, that familiar argument of “I’m old enough to know” not far away, but then she nodded and left reluctantly. When the door closed behind her, Charles let out a sigh.

‘What do we do?’ Hank asked.

‘We could go over there,’ Sean suggested. ‘It’s so close - we could be suited up in no time...’

‘No, under no circumstances,’ Charles told him sharply.

‘But...’

‘If they suspect mutant involvement, they won’t be able to tell us from them,’ he explained. ‘It’s better that we stay out of it.’ He considered the situation, and then said: ‘This is what we do. Assemble the children - explain what’s happened. There will be parents calling, but I’ll deal with them. We do nothing else until the one o’clock news. Then, we assess the situation, and I will collect more information using Cerebro.’

‘Shouldn’t be find out what’s going on first?’ Sean asked.

‘No, the professor’s right,’ Hank interrupted.

‘If it appears that we know more than what’s on the radio, that will make people very suspicious,’ Charles explained. ‘It’s close enough that we can see the smoke - people will assume we’ve got something to do with it. We wait.’

As if to illustrate that the conversation was over, the telephone on his desk rang.

‘Excuse me,’ Charles said and wheeled over to it. ‘I seem to have some upset parents to deal with.’

***

The wait until the one o’clock news was excruciating. There was no time for a proper lunch. Instead, they ended up eating in Charles’ study, sitting on the couch and in armchairs, as the headmaster continued trying to calm down the various parents who were calling. Roberto’s mother wanted to take home her son, and it took over half an hour to talk her out of the decision. Charles was not so successful with Tabitha’s parents, who assumed that there was a connection between the school and the attack and demanded to pick up their daughter the next day.

‘We’ll tell her this afternoon,’ Charles told the others. ‘They may yet change their minds.’ Still, it did not seem very likely. For not the first time since Sean had burst in and turned the radio on, he wished Erik was there. He had only seen him briefly between phone-calls, just before the assembly, and they had not had time speak. They had simply shared a glance, mutual worry passing between them before their respective tasks had called them. During lunch, Erik had kept the students company, and Charles had sensed that he wished he had been in the study with the other teachers. More than once, he had considered calling him with his mind, telling him to come. He needed him by his side, quiet and composed at his shoulder, for support and encouragement. For a moment, he imagined Erik standing beside him and placing his hand over his on the desk. Thinking about it made it feel worse.

When they moved over to the television room, Charles pointed out:

‘Someone should get Erik.’

‘What about the kids?’ Sean asked. He very nearly said that Sean could watch the students instead, but he realised that that was not an acceptable answer, so he simply murmured something vague and let it go.

They were a few minutes early for the broadcast, but soon enough the picture of the grave news anchor appeared.

 _‘Good afternoon. Our leading story today is the mutant attack on the gas works in Bedford, New York State. The attack has this far has claimed twenty-seven lives and injured dozens, both of employees at the gas works and from the surrounding area, as well causing extensive damage on property and infrastructure. Reinforcements of police and fire-fighters have been sent in. Reports of the army having been called in have not yet been confirmed. Police has released parts of the tape which was sent to Bedford police station just before the first explosions to the public.’_

The anchor disappeared, and in his place was a grainy, black-and-white picture of a seated figure. The beginning of the recording must have been cut, because the image was frozen for a second. It was long enough for Charles to recognise the odd helmet the figure wore. Cold sweat started to gather under his collar. His throat went dry. A dark, solemn voice he knew so well came from the television set.

 _‘We will show no mercy. We will show no humility. If humankind is not prepared to accept the end of their reign, then it is our duty to wrench the sceptre from their hands. We shall stop at nothing to gain what is rightfully ours.’_

‘My God,’ Hank murmured. Charles became aware of them all looking his way.

‘You let this man into our house,’ Sean said disbelievingly. ‘You sheltered him...’

‘Something’s not right,’ Charles said, half to himself.

‘Damn right it isn’t,’ Alex said. Panic and anger made his voice shake. ‘We left the kids with him.’

‘No, with the recording,’ Charles said, his own voice not quite steady either. ‘Can’t you hear it? This is an old recording. His accent’s changed since he came here - it’s not as strong on this tape...’

‘So they recorded it before he left, and then he went here to give himself an alibi,’ Alex retorted. ‘Professor, he’s had you on - all this has been a plot. I kept saying there was something odd with all this...’ Charles shook his head, not wanting to hear his objections. He had wondered why Erik had returned, of course, but every time he had read his mind, there had been no deceit to be found. He did not think that Erik would be able to hide such a thing, even with the help of another telepath. Could it be that he had not gone deep enough - had he endangered the children by inviting him back? But why would the Brotherhood hide away their leader - after all, Charles had been with Erik when the explosion had happened. Self-consciously, he raised his hand and slipped his fingers under his collar to touch the mark on his throat. He wondered, if worst came to worst, whether he would have the courage to tell them how he could be so certain where Erik had been that morning.

The grainy picture was exchanged of that with the news anchor again.

 _‘Known mutant terrorists have been spotted at the scene of the attack, among them their ringleader, who goes under the name “Magneto”. An individual thought to be the same is wanted in several countries, among them Germany, Switzerland, Monaco and Argentina, on several charges, including murder, assault and fraud.’_ Charles’ heartbeat stepped up. If Magneto had been there, there could only be one answer...

 _‘We are now joined by Senator Henry Gyrich. Welcome, Mister Gyrich. What do you think will be the direct consequences of this attack?’_

 _‘Thank you for having me. Today is without a doubt a watershed in these issues. We have figures of well over thirty dead. Ignoring the situation will no longer be an option for the government. Both on a state and a federal level, officials must now take a firm stand on the mutant question...’_

‘So we’re a question now.’ Charles looked up and felt his heart jump with mingled fear and relief. There stood Erik, not in helmet and cape but in suit and tie, not a warrior but a teacher, leaning against the doorway. ‘“The mutant question”,’ Erik repeated, walking slowly into the room, aware of everyone staring at him. No one was paying attention to the television anymore. He stopped a few feet from the professor and looked him in the eye. ‘They will find an answer to that question, Charles. This is how it starts.’ Charles swallowed.

‘Your arguments have lost their lustre, my friend.’ Erik lifted an eyebrow.

‘I did not wish for this to happen,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘It does not change the fact that is has.’

‘ _You_ could have changed it,’ Charles answered.

‘How?’ Finding no way to answer, Charles simply pointed to the television. The recorded threat was being played again.

‘ _We will show no mercy. We will show no humility._ ’ Erik did not lose control over his face, but his eyes darkened.

‘Well?’ Hank asked, getting to his feet. Alex moved to his side, and Sean rose too. The only thing between them and their target was Charles, his physical position a mark of his act as negotiator.

‘I knew it,’ Alex said. ‘Someone like _him_ wouldn’t just change his mind and go good.’

‘It’s not that simple, Alex,’ Charles said, but did not look away from Erik. Even in this dire situation, as anger and disappointment mixed, he felt a glow of affection for him. He pushed it aside and concentrated on the situation in question. ‘First thing is first, Erik. You lied to me.’

‘Not by choice,’ he answered.

‘The Brotherhood did this,’ Charles stated, annoyed at how casual Erik sounded. ‘True or false?’ He was silent for a moment, and then conceded:

‘True.’

‘And you told me that the Brotherhood had been disbanded,’ he continued. Now, Erik shook his head.

‘I never said that. I simply did not mention their continued existence.’ Charles’ calm finally broke.

‘A lie of omission is still a lie!’ he shouted. Behind him, he was aware of the others jumping at him raising his voice. In front of him, Erik remained still, the only reaction a melancholic smile and an averted glance.

‘Yes, perhaps it was a lie,’ he admitted. ‘But it was you, Charles, who assumed that the Brotherhood had been disbanded, and it felt better not to correct you. I assumed that eventually, you would read that part of my mind, and you’d know the truth about my defection.’ Charles watched him, his disappointment and anger mixing with a resigned sense of gratitude for at least this truth.

‘So was it just you and Mystique, then?’ he asked.

‘Wha- Mystique?’ Hank repeated, startled.

‘Isn’t that right?’ Charles said, still looking Erik in the eye but pointed to the television. ‘You had never heard those words in your life.’ Now Erik chuckled, as if the situation had turned absurd.

‘Right as always, old friend.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Hank stuttered. ‘If he’s never heard them...’

‘Magneto on the tape sent to the police wasn’t Erik,’ Charles explained. ‘It was Raven. Wasn’t it?’ Erik nodded. ‘Then tell us everything.’

Erik drew a breath and sat down, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.

‘I did not lie when I said that the Brotherhood had no chance of success,’ he began. He remained turned towards Charles, oblivious of the other mutants in the room. ‘Shaw’s old lackeys were an unpleasant crowd. They wanted little of mutant freedom, only freedom from authority - human or mutant. They were opportunists, only allied with Shaw because of what he could give them, and they grew more and more annoyed at the fact that I was not interested at giving them any comforts, but to have them fight for a cause I had expected we shared. The new recruits were unpredictable, bent on senseless destruction for no other reason than that they enjoyed it. They did not share my conviction. Few did. It had looked perfect to begin with, but in reality, we were caught up in constant arguments, even fights within our own ranks. To achieve what I wished for was not a realistic goal. It was a stillborn enterprise.’ Charles listened with his chin leaning against his hand, eyes not straying from Erik.

‘So you decided to leave,’ he filled in when he fell silent.

‘Yes, but it was not that simple,’ Erik explained. ‘I could not simply shed my mantle and hope that there would be an Elisha to take it up. But more and more often, I doubted the methods we had prescribed to. It did not scare the humans into submission, only made them more aggressive towards us. It was ineffective - dangerous, even.’

‘I thought that was what you wanted,’ Sean said, unconvinced. ‘You wouldn’t just give up wrecking destruction like that.’ Erik shot him a look, and when he answered, his voice had gained a fierce edge.

‘Do you really take me for such a monster?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you understand that I had grown tired of it all? I have spent my entire adult life pursuing a single goal, with no home, no family, no companionship. I thought that after...’ He paused briefly to control himself. ‘...after Shaw’s death, I could go back to that, despite what I... left behind. I was wrong. All I want now is what was always denied me.’ He sighed and turned to look at Charles for a moment. ‘I have lost my single-mindedness. I had hoped that it was for the best. Perhaps it has made me a little more... human.’ He smiled ironically at the word. Charles’ hand rose unbidden, and he had to stop himself from placing it on Erik’s arm.

‘So what did you do?’ he asked instead. Erik took a deep breath and continued his story.

‘Only two remained truly loyal to me,’ he explained. ‘Mystique and Emma Frost. We planned it for a long time. Then at one assembly, when everyone was present, Mystique made a scene. She stood up and taunted me, called me a cowardly leader and an unsatisfying lover. She explained to everyone present how Charles was twice the leader I was - and Beast twice the man.’ Hank looked away, embarrassment making him shake. ‘Then she stormed out, and I followed.’

‘And when Magneto returned, no-one suspected that it was really Mystique,’ Charles concluded. Erik nodded.

‘She changed into me and took my cape and helmet. Not even Frost could tell us apart then. They searched the woods for Mystique, but settled on that she had defected to the school, just as we had wanted them to.’

‘And then what?’ Charles asked. ‘How did the plan continue?’

‘You already know my part of the plan. After leaving the Brotherhood, I made my way to the school. I knew that you might reject me - if you had, I am not certain what I had done. But you welcomed me back - I don’t think I ever told you how grateful I was for that.’ Charles could not help but smile at that. Then he returned to the matter at hand, and asked:

‘And the Brotherhood?’ Erik smiled morbidly.

‘You never gave her credit for it, but Mystique is a brilliant actress. It is not only by virtue of her shapeshifting abilities either. We decided that after I had left, she was to act out, in front of the entire Brotherhood, my descent into madness. Magneto had a reason, of course - he had just lost his right-hand woman to his enemies. So he was to become more and more unpredictable and paranoid - Mystique would feign illness, drunkenness, insanity. Together, with a combination of acting and psychic manipulation, she and Frost would start dissolving the Brotherhood. Hopefully, people would be persuaded to leave. Those who did not could be easily despatched. It would take little more than a drunken outburst from their leader. Mystique has become a quite excellent knife-thrower. It was perfect.’ Hank looked away, as if nauseated by the story. Alex and Sean looked equally disgusted. Charles kept his eyes on Erik.

‘But it didn’t work,’ he concluded gravely. Erik sighed.

‘True. Something went wrong.’

‘What do you think did?’

‘She may have been found out,’ he suggested, ‘and forced to stage this.’

‘She didn’t sound like she was being coerced on that tape,’ Charles pointed out.

‘It is only one possibility,’ Erik agreed. ‘The other obvious explanation is that she has changed her mind, and is acting a strong leader, instead of a mad one, for reasons which are her own.’

‘How did she feel about this plan?’ asked Charles. ‘It would have put her in great risk. Even if she took your form, she would not have your powers. Besides, she can’t keep one form for more than about twelve hours. Then she must revert to her natural form for a while.’

‘Mystique was aware of that it would not be easy, but she was willing to do it,’ Erik answered.

‘And the fact that it would be taking on another disguise did not bother her?’ he asked. For a moment, Erik looked uncertain.

‘I think she liked the excitement of it. In the past, she had mostly done infiltration work, so this was a way of taking a more active role within the Brotherhood. She certainly has leadership potential - this was an excellent opportunity to use it.’

‘And the ideological implications?’

‘You mean, what side did she take?’ Charles nodded. Erik smiled, as if he felt sorry for him. ‘I’m sorry, Charles, but she was more convinced of our cause than even I was.’

‘Then perhaps she took up the fight herself,’ Charles said. ‘Perhaps she felt that you were too kind, and she could do it better...’

‘Listen to yourselves,’ Hank exclaimed suddenly. They both turned to look at him; Charles was surprised to realise that their discussion had made also him forget that the children were there. ‘You sound like you’re enjoying this. This is Raven we’re talking about! Your sister!’

‘She has not been Raven for a long time, Hank,’ Erik said. Beast simply shook his head and left the room, footsteps heavy enough to make the furniture shake. Charles sighed at the outburst and drew his hand through his hair. He heard Erik rising.

‘I promise you, Charles, that I knew nothing of this.’ He nodded, because he knew it was the truth.

The distant sound of the telephone was heard.

‘Excuse me,’ Charles said and wheeled himself towards the door, trying to make it look like he was not escaping. ‘We’ll continue this later.’

***

Around five o’clock, the phone calls stopped. Leaving Sean to guard the telephone in case it rang again, Charles headed out to the rose garden. He needed the silence of that place now to clear his head. Winter was approaching, and it was cold even with an extra jumper on. There were barely any roses left on the bushes, but the circular garden still kept its sanctuary-like calm.

Charles could not really figure out what he felt. It must be the shock of it. The attack was so close to home - physically, because of the proximity with the mansion, and personally, because his sister, masquerading as his lover, was the ringleader. He had thought of entering Mystique’s mind through Cerebro, but then he remembered that Erik had mentioned handing over the helmet, so it would not be possible. Equally, he could not enter Emma Frost’s mind without her noticing, and he did not want her to know that Erik had told them the truth, in case it would stir some ill-will towards him. In the end, he had toured the minds of the other members of the Brotherhood. He had found no implication that they knew that their leader was in disguise. Instead, he had seen the devastation of the gas works and the blaze of the explosions, and felt their mixed awe and joy and fear at the destruction they had caused.

However much he tried, Charles could not predict what the political repercussions would be. He prayed that Erik was wrong in his ominous predictions, but it would certainly make things more difficult for mutants. Even if the government took no action, people would use it as another reason for intolerance. That would in itself compromise the school. Of course, it was not generally known what kind of students they had at the school, but there was always the risk that it would be revealed. And what awaited them then? Protests, stone-throwing, arson? Recruiting new students would become more difficult even if they were not exposed. It was difficult enough now to turn up at someone’s doorstep and try to explain to them that the reason why their child was acting strangely was because he or she was a mutant. If the climate got worse, it would be a bigger challenge yet.

Raven’s motivations remained obscured to him. After all, he had not met her for two years - indeed, he still thought of her by a name which she no longer used. Had it been like Erik had suggested, that she simply decided to take up the fight when he decided to leave it, or was it more complicated? Charles could think of many reasons why it might be. Perhaps this was a kind of indirect revenge. By making threats and appearing at the attack when in the form of Magneto, she had ensured that Erik was a wanted man, and this was more dramatic than any of the Brotherhood’s previous coupes. Still now, Charles could see the pillar of smoke from the destroyed gas works. It was a perfect way of punishing him, if she felt any bitterness at his leaving; that he had done so would mean an unambiguous end to the sporadic affair they had had. Besides, if she knew of Erik’s attraction to her brother, which he assumed she did, this was also a way of harming Charles. She would understand the distress it would cause him, and more concretely, that it would threaten the school. That the attack was in Bedford and not some more important city showed that they had kept the location of the mansion in mind. Not only would it scare the students and teachers - it would arouse the suspicions of the locals and draw the attention of the police their way.

And what of Erik? The whole story of his defection from the Brotherhood threw new light on his intentions of coming here. It convinced Charles that, despite that Erik still kept his ideological convictions, he was sincere. This new information had also shown just how badly he had wanted to leave. It had not been a whim, but something had spent months on, finding allies, making an intricate plan, putting both himself and others at risk. Charles knew that had he been less observant of his self-imposed rule of not reading a person’s mind without their permission, he would have known about the swap. Even if Erik had known nothing about this attack and had simply assumed that the plan of dissolving the Brotherhood was going ahead as he had planned, they might have been able to do something to stop it...

There was the sound of gravel shifting, not under the soles of shoes but bare feet. Emerging from his thoughts, Charles caught sight of Hank, hovering at the entrance to the garden.

‘Hank,’ he said and tried to muster a smile. ‘Come closer.’ Hank stepped forward, but his face, which was usually so complaisant, was rigid with anger. It took a moment for him to find his voice.

‘He’s turned her into a mass-murderer.’ Charles looked up, surprised.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Raven wouldn’t do this,’ he said. There was a slight tremble in his words, where he was trying to control the beastlike rage which he was capable of. ‘She is a sweet, kind girl, she wouldn’t...’ Charles sighed.

‘It’s rather more complicated than that, I’m afraid, Hank.’ He exhaled violently and looked up at the sky. It was rapidly getting darker. Then he stared down in the gravel and swallowed.

‘She couldn’t have known, you know, Professor.’

‘Known what?’ Charles asked, but Hank’s sudden embarrassment made it obvious.

‘When she said that I...’ He broke off. ‘That I was twice the man Erik was. We never... I’ve never...’

‘It’s alright, Hank,’ Charles said softly, feeling a wave of compassion for the young man, who one moment was worrying that the girl he crushed on had turned into a terrorist and the next fretted about still being a virgin.

‘Why did he make her do it?’ Hank exclaimed, anger returning after the sudden confidence. It sounded almost like a roar.

‘Erik did not have anything to do with this,’ Charles told him. ‘I can assure you of that. You heard his explanation - he wanted to dissolve the Brotherhood. That it’s grown stronger is not his doing.’

‘I know I should believe you, professor, but...’ He shook his head defeatedly. ‘It’s just that... it could have been her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Raven could have returned,’ he said. Something misguidedly hopeful had lit up in his eyes. ‘She _should_ have returned. Not Erik.’ With sudden force, Charles felt the resentment against himself, which Hank would never voice. Even if he had not understood how well the parallel worked, Hank was aware that it had been Charles who had been granted his friend back, not he. Briefly, Charles wondered if that was the kind of wound which would close, but never quite stop aching. If he were not careful, that anger would always lie between them.

Shaking his head slowly, he smiled at him compassionately.

‘I do not think Raven will ever change her mind,’ he said softly. ‘She felt out of place, even with us. To her, our solution was not possible. And I am as sorry for that as you are.’ Hank hung his head, knowing the professor was right but not wanting to admit it. He and Raven were stuck on different sides of the battle-line, both outcasts because of their appearance. He was content to hide away and indulge himself in his science. She refused to hide even her nakedness. A part of him resented that, but another was jealous at Raven’s stubbornness. That part of him wished that he too could feel that no-one had any reason or right to stop and gawp at his blue skin and fur. He should not have to hide inside or cover it all up - he should even be allowed to walk with his hands in the ground if he wanted to. However much people stared or called him an ape, they should never be right. But that insight did not change that he did not want to be that person - he wanted to be normal. He wanted to look like any other white kid his age, not like something out of a sideshow. Not only that, but he wanted Raven - the blonde, brown-eyed Raven - to share that experience of normality with him. The greatest irony of it all was that he had ruined that opportunity for himself in an attempt to safeguard it. Charles reflected that that kind of thing was far too common around here.

‘Heartbreak is never easy,’ Charles said. ‘Unfortunately, the only cure is time.’

‘There’s too many things time doesn’t cure,’ Hank sighed and left, his mind still on Raven.

***

Once Charles returned to his office, he could not find the peace of mind to work. Instead, he had settled by the piano and caressed the ivory lightly, hoping it would distract him. When the door opened, he did not look up, knowing already who it was. Erik hovered in the doorway for a moment. Then without a word, he stepped in, closed the door and sat down beside him.

They sat in silence for a long time, not looking at each other. It was Charles who finally spoke.

‘I can’t help feeling it’s my fault.’

‘If anyone should feel that, it should be I,’ Erik answered.

‘You didn’t know,’ Charles said quietly.

‘Neither did you.’

‘I should have,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve been too busy playing school-master to keep track of the sinister world outside.’ Slowly, he spread his hands and played a cord. Anticipating his actions, Erik reached for the pedal, and the sound remained, hovering between them.

‘You should never underestimate what you do here, Charles.’ Charles snorted. _We teach children basic physics and Schiller and the Civil War, and how not to accidentally kill people with their powers. But is it really enough?_ He let his hand move over the keyboard to find another cord. Erik mirrored him, and started picking out a slow melody.

‘Do you know who Herschel Grynszpan was, Charles?’ he asked, eyes on the keyboard.

‘No,’ Charles answered. ‘Someone you knew?’ Erik shook his head, and explained.

‘He was a Polish Jew, who grew up in Weimar, and then moved to France. In 1938, when he was seventeen, he learnt that his family had been deported back to Poland. As revenge, he shot a German diplomat.’ The melody he played grew disjointed and dissolved into unlinked cords. ‘The Nazis used it as an excuse for the _Kristallnacht_.’ His hands came to rest on the keys. It took a moment for Charles to find his voice.

‘You mean that something like that might happen.’

‘Whatever the immediate consequences of this attack, it will make the situation for mutants worse,’ Erik explained. ‘Perhaps even insufferable.’

‘I’m rather afraid you’re right,’ Charles sighed. The likeness of events was by no means perfect, he reflected, but he had a point. He could feel Erik’s fear for the repetition of history reverberating through him, and in an attempt to distract himself he tried to pick out the melody Erik had played before, which he had not known. The search for the right tones continued for a long time, until he asked:

‘Do you think we could ever be happy?’ For the first time since he entered, Erik looked hm in the eye.

‘“We”?’

‘You and I,’ Charles explained and looked away again. His hand flattened against the keys. Erik’s rose to cover it. ‘I imagined that everything bad would suddenly disappear,’ he said, laughing at his own foolishness. ‘As if those first two weeks would last forever. I thought that this was the missing bit of the puzzle...’ He shook his head. ‘How could I have been so naive?’ Erik took his hand properly.

‘I think any hope for true happiness disappeared long ago,’ he answered softly. Charles swallowed. Today had been too emotional. ‘It does not mean this is not worthwhile.’ He nodded.

‘No, of course not.’ Erik took to drawing his thumb up and down the back of his hand slowly. It was easier than speaking. ‘You could never go back to the Brotherhood,’ Charles observed. ‘If you do and tell them the truth, they will have no respect for you. Even if you claimed that it was all a test of their loyalties, they would hate you. If you simply swap back and Mystique pretends to be the one who returns, they would lynch her.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Erik agreed gravely.

‘All that for this,’ Charles whispered. The grip around his hand grew almost painful.

‘It is worth it,’ Erik said, emphasising every word. ‘It is worth everything.’

‘Even those people who died today?’ Charles wondered and looked him in the eye. He did not flinch at the question. ‘Do you even care?’

‘It is worth even that.’ He tried to look away, but Erik stopped him, grabbing his chin and making him meet his eyes. ‘Charles, you must stop doubting me.’

‘It’s not you I’m doubting,’ he assured him. ‘Your loyalty to me is unquestionable. Whatever happens to us, between us, you will still keep part of that love - whether it is a sapling, or a shard, you would never throw it away. Love is too precious for you.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I doubt myself, and those around us. Not an hour ago, Hank came to see me, and I could feel how he resented me because it was you, not Raven, who had come back. What if he knew, Erik? About us? How much worse would not that resentment be? Would be stop at just thinking it? And even if he did, he - all of them - would despise us. Me. And I would feel it - every moment.’ As he spoke, Erik had let go of his hand and traced his arm up to his shoulder, until he stopped at the nape of his neck, where his hand came to rest, tenderly entangled in the hair. ‘And then the parents - everyone else...’ He drew his hand over his sweaty brow, trying to compose himself. ‘It all escalates, all that hate building up, because of all those reasons... I don’t know if _I’m_ fit as a teacher, Erik.’

‘You are the finest teacher there ever was.’

‘Don’t say things like that just because you think I need to hear it,’ Charles said. Even if he did not see his face, he was aware that Erik was smiling.

‘You know full well that I meant it.’ Charles turned to look at him now. Even the short distance between them suddenly felt painful, and he leaned closer to kiss him.

They melted into each other. Their tongues slipped and their lips rubbed together as they took hold of each other’s heads, desperate to keep close. For a short moment, Charles forgot everything, and a form of content settled instead. As soon as their mouths no longer touched, the worries came back, but the kiss made him feel a little better. Concentrating to share the images with him, Charles imagined what they might do after dinner - a glass of scotch, a game of chess, a session of lovemaking. Erik nodded. As if to seal the deal, they kissed again, slower now.

They let go of each other, but remained side by side at the piano. Charles noticed how Erik tried to put his thoughts into words, in an attempt to explain that what had happened was not his fault, and that (possibly ironic when coming from him), dwelling on it would not undo anything. Nevertheless, he did not speak. Charles started to pick out Mozart’s eighth piano sonata, as Erik pushed down the pedals for him. The sonata was a soft, hesitant piece, which weighed between the calm and the melancholy. It suited Charles’ mood, even now when Erik leaned over and pressed his lips against his temple. Only twice did the melody darken, and its true disposition was obvious, but for the most part, it was the sound of someone who got by on frail hope.


	9. Chapter 9

The trees below were silent. No bird rose from the foliage. The sky was hers. There was frost in the air - the night would be unpleasant.

Angel dipped to let her foot brush the tree-tops, relishing the freedom of flying. These scouting-sessions were a rare chance to be alone, and she felt her mind clear even as she left the forest behind and turned back. As she approached the hill where they had made up camp, she spotted the regal figure waiting for her. Its helmet picked up the light of the moon and glinted red. As if it were a signal, she dived, and then straightened up to land on her feet beside him.

‘Well?’ Magneto asked, looking out over the woods with his arms resolutely crossed over his chest, like a king surveying his kingdom. It was a piteous dominion.

‘Not a soul in a fifteen-mile radius,’ Angel reported. ‘Barely any wildlife.’

‘We have provisions to last us another few days,’ he reflected. ‘Then we must stock up.’ She nodded, but said nothing. He turned to her, looking down with a rare smile.

‘It has begun,’ he announced. ‘Great things lie ahead.’

‘So we blow up one little gas works and then we wait for weeks?’ she wondered. ‘Shouldn’t we move quicker?’

‘We wait until they let their guard down again.’

‘Yes,’ she said, knowing it was expected of her. The attack had been exhilarating, but it had scared her too. Perhaps she must feed her resentment more, like Mystique had. Magneto must have noticed her hesitation.

‘What is it, Angel?’

‘I was just thinking about Mystique,’ she explained, shrugging with both wings and shoulders. It was possible to hear him tense. Still she knew that he was no threat to her - he had seen him punish some of the others for mentioning her, but Angel had been with the Brotherhood long enough to be safe. She turned to face him again. ‘It must get lonely, huh?’ He did not answer. ‘You know, Mystique and I were pals. We got on really well. I can’t see what made her go. She loved all this - she really believed in it.’

‘People can be deceptive,’ Magneto answered curtly and looked into the distance. She had obviously touched upon some old wound. It can’t have been easy to have Mystique say all those things in front of everyone. They had meant something for each other, after all, and Angel knew that things were more complicated than that. Momentarily, she remembered the events at her club, long ago. Even if they said that Professor X was a crippled recluse nowadays, he still exercised powers over them all. She wondered if he ever went into her mind with that machine of his. The thought of it made her shiver. Mistaking the reason for it to be cold, Magneto pulled her close, wrapping his cape around her. In surprise, she looked up at him, and for a moment, she thought that his eyes looked different.

The kiss came as a surprise. His lips were warm against hers, and the sharp edges of the helmet dug into her face. She grabbed at his shoulder to push him away - she did not want to become another notch on his bedpost. But then she realised that there was nothing seductive about this kiss. She recognised the way a desperate, lonely man kissed. He wanted comfort as much as pleasure. Going up on tiptoes, she kissed back.

Then, as soon as it had started, he broke away, and the moment passed.

‘How long are we going to live in a forest?’ she asked, trying to sound unaffected.

‘Soon it will be different,’ he said, promise in his voice. Briefly, he reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘You will live like a queen, Angel.’ Then with a sweep of his cape, he turned and stalked off. She stayed looking after him, wondering how he could have known of Shaw’s promise, when he had not even been there to hear it.

***

Charles had grown to believe that by now, they knew each other’s bodies off by heart. He would be able to draw a map of Erik’s body and plot every birthmark and scar onto it. Equally, Erik would be able to replicate the form of his chest and the curve of his neck in metal. Their embrace had become a refuge.

It was late November now, and apart from a certain tenseness in the air and two empty chairs, vacated by students whose parents had taken them away, there was nothing overt to witness of the attack on the gas works. The mansion was growing colder, and Hank fussed about that someone might catch a chill. Erik stopped sleeping on his own altogether - the cold made his insomnia worse, and sleeping pressed against Charles was the only thing which seemed to help. Charles’ worries for Erik and what they shared only added to his fears for the school and mutants beyond that frayed at his nerves. Even leaving aside the still-lingering shame, there was the way he doted on him (probably unhealthy in itself), and the risk of exposure, and the events in their common past.

The worry never truly let go. Sex dulled it, but now, when the time for sloppy kisses and biting and sucking, the part of their relationship which was so physical that it was almost animal, had passed, and Erik took to drawing his lips lightly over his chest, the unease returned. As Erik traced his fingers down his sternum and the light line of hair down his stomach, Charles already anticipated how he would stop, a little less than an inch over the navel, never straying beyond the point where the bullet had taken away sensation. He felt a sudden urge to scream. _Touch me, goddammit! It’s not contagious. It’s still me, for Christ’s sake - what the hell is the difference?_ Here was the bitter seed of resentment, and however much Charles wanted it not to be true, Erik’s pausing fingers encouraged it to grow. How he wished that Erik would touch him without reservations, and do to him what he had fantasised about even before they had become involved. Charles would not mind it if he took out his aggressions on his body, although he supposed that part of it would be little point if he could not feel it. He was well aware that it was a stupid idea - it could so easily get out of hand, and if Erik inadvertently hurt him, the consequences might be dire. _Imagine trying to talk yourself out of that one to Hank, Charlie-boy. There are better ways of being discovered._ The impulse alone scared him - it was uncharacteristically self-destructive. The consequences would be well beyond harmless bite-marks. Had he become so entangled in his own emotions that he had given up on common sense? As so often, Charles realised how reckless they had become. Suddenly he was aware of the house around them, and sensed the other residents. So many ears which listened and minds which searched for connections. _What an idiot I’ve become!_ he told himself. _I’m risking all of this - all of them - for my own happiness. Is it so bad that I put my own wishes before the good of many...?_

‘Charles?’ Roused from his thoughts, he looked up and realised that Erik was stopped his ministrations. Instead, he was propped up on his elbows, looking worries. ‘You’re not really enjoying this, are you?’

‘Of course I am, darling,’ Charles answered and raised a hand to rub his neck affectionately. ‘I’m just tired.’ Erik took hold of his arm and pulled away his hand. _Disappointment._ ‘Erik...’

‘You obviously have more important things on your mind,’ Erik said curtly and suddenly got out of bed, leaving the mattress rocking. Charles drew himself up against the bed-board.

‘Erik, come back to bed,’ he told him, but Erik was already finding his clothes. At the sight of it, his patience broke. ‘I know you’re glad about it, you know.’ Erik, shirt in hand, stopped and turned to stare at him. The clothing fell from his hand at he sat down on the bed, looking at him acutely. ‘The attack on the gas works,’ Charles explained. ‘You’re secretly glad it happened.’

‘Nothing is secret from you, my friend,’ he said, sounding resigned.

‘You may have changed your methods, but you have not changed your opinions,’ Charles continued. He did not want it to sound like an accusation, and forced himself to simply make a statement.

‘That is true,’ Erik conceded. It was difficult to tell how sincere this truce was. Despite fearing that Erik might suddenly storm out of the room, he felt a need to press on.

‘The reason is fairly evident. You want to deserve their hate.’ Now, Erik frowned.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s quite possible you’re doing it subconsciously,’ Charles explained and intertwined his fingers. The familiar task of analysis calmed him, and to his own surprise, he found his voice quite serene. ‘You are aware that all hate is irrational and illogical. That means that it is impossible to find actual reasons for it. The horrors you suffered as a child were a result of such an ideology of hate, and however much you ask, “why?”, you never find a satisfactory answer. The hate which you are now subject to, because of your being a mutant, is just as irrational as anti-Semitism. So you feel that if you give them a reason to hate you, if you can say that all this is because we pose an _actual_ threat to humans, then that hate - and all the previous oppression you have witnessed - will make a little more sense.’ Erik looked at him, seeming unimpressed.

‘We do pose an actual threat to humans,’ he said finally.

‘Be that as it may,’ Charles answered, ‘but your reasons for taking that position is more complicated than you may want to admit.’ It only seemed to exasperate him further, because with a sigh, he found his undershirt, put it on and took his shirt off the floor again.

‘You know, I’m fascinated by the way it is impossible to have a conversation with you without your trying to psychoanalyse me - particularly as you said that it would be inappropriate for you to do just that.’ Charles shrugged.

‘I do it without thinking.’

‘As so many things,’ Erik added. ‘Have you ever considered that _you_ might be the one who needs an analyst?’

‘Who doesn’t need an analyst?’ he snorted, but then decided that being tart about it was not really helpful, so he sighed and said: ‘You’re right, Erik. I’m sorry.’ Erik stopped and, after a moment of hesitation, sat down on the bedside again.

‘What is wrong?’ Erik asked, sounding concerned. ‘It’s obvious that something is disturbing you.’ Charles shrugged.

‘I don’t think I really know myself,’ he answered. ‘There’s so many things.’ Erik reached out to stroke his hair, and, prompted by that show of tenderness, Charles admitted: ‘I just feel inadequate, I guess.’

‘How can _you_ feel inadequate?’ Erik asked incredulously and drew back his hand.

'Don’t sound so surprised,’ Charles muttered. ‘What have I done to address this crisis? I’ve held an assembly and told the children a bunch of half-truths about you to protect you. I’ve told them to be careful in public, and preferably just stay inside the grounds.’ He sighed. ‘Over the past three weeks, we’ve lost two students because their parents think that we’re making them more mutant than they already are - because they don’t trust us. I wish I could do more, but I can’t think of a way to take a stand without endangering someone...’ Erik looked at him, disappointment returning.

‘You have grown completely spineless,’ he told him.

‘Not the best description, I’d say,’ Charles said in an undertone. ‘Thank you for having faith in me.’

‘I can’t see how you can be certain you are doing good when you’re around your students, and then suddenly when you’re only in my company, you simply stop believing in yourself.’ Charles hesitated before answering:

‘I dare to show that I am weak in front of you.’

‘You’re not weak,’ Erik said sharply, and his mind echoed: _You are not weak_. Charles looked away, not convinced. ‘For goodness’ sake, just do something about it, if it makes you feel like that,’ he snapped, punched his pillow and got into bed again. Charles remained sitting up, fighting a sudden urge to cry.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologising,’ Erik muttered over his shoulder. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘“It’ll all feel better in the morning,”’ Charles said ironically.

‘It’s probably true.’ Then he settled with his back towards him, trying to fall asleep. Charles tried to follow suit, but however much he tried, he could not seem to fall asleep. Even as Erik slipped off, he was still wide awake, their recent argument spinning in his head. What was it Erik had said to him the evening they had slept together for the first time? _Self-pity doesn’t suit you. It is a refuge for lesser men._ It was frustrating that he needed Erik to tell him this, but before he came back, Charles had been able to ignore all those feelings of inadequacy and drown them in work. Without Erik, he was an emotionless husk, for better or for worse. With Erik, he felt so much love, but also hated himself for countless reasons.

‘Utterly ridiculous,’ he muttered to himself. Would he rather go back to being the efficient loner? No, that was unimaginable. But there were so many ways things could be better - between him and Erik, in the school, in the world...

He stopped; there was something there, just at the edge of his mind... And suddenly it was plain to him. Very carefully, so as not to wake Erik, he pulled himself up against the bed-board and took out a notebook and pen. As he closed the drawer in the bedside table, Erik stirred. Charles reached out and touched his mind. _Sleep._ When he was certain that he had listened to the incentive, he concentrated on the talk at hand. The first sentence came to him, and as he wrote it down, the rest of the paragraph manifested itself. In front of his eyes, under his pen, words formed almost before he had time to think them. The only thing which made him pause was when he felt a nightmare forming under Erik’s eyelids. Then, he would reach out and, stroking his hair, told him: _You do not need to dream of that. It can hurt you no more. Do not heed it. Sleep._ The dream would pass, and Charles would go back to his work. When he had filled up many pages of the notebook, he went back and read it through, making corrections. It was getting light when he finally fell asleep, pen still in his hand.

***

‘Charles?’

He jolted awake, not certain where he was. His back ached, and his neck was killing him - he had slept uncomfortably reclined against his pillows, head against the carvings on the bed-post. Erik was sitting by his side, the sheets pulled up just to his waist. Charles thought he looked a little different - content, somehow.

‘Good morning,’ Charles said slowly and leaned his head back. ‘How did you sleep?’ Erik looked almost embarrassed at the question.

‘Very well,’ he answered. ‘What about you? You...’ _Look awful._

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Charles admitted and rubbed his eyes.

‘Perhaps you should go back to sleep,’ Erik suggested. He shook his head, blinking to wake up.

‘No - I’ll be fine.’ Acknowledging it, his bedfellow nodded and started getting dressed to sneak back to his room to change properly. Charles decided to follow his example and pulled on his dressing-gown. He would feel much more awake after a bath and a few cups strong Earl Grey. He was still idly tying the sash of the gown when Erik came around the bed and sat down. There was a silent _thank you_ written in his eyes. He knew that Charles had averted his nightmares - as a rule he did not have such calm nights. Charles was glad that he did not mind it, and he was also glad to see something apologetic along with the gratitude. To show him that there was no ill feeling between them, he leaned in to kiss him. Erik kissed back. As he edged closer to embrace him, his foot hit against something on the floor, which made him break the touch and look down. ‘What’s this?’ From the floor, he picked up Charles’ notebook.

‘Oh - something I wrote,’ Charles explained as Erik looked at the writing on the open page. ‘Would you read it for me?’

‘Of course,’ he said and looked at him for a moment with newfound respect.

‘Go get dressed,’ Charles told him and pushed his arm playfully. Erik stole a final kiss and left him to get ready for the day.

***

When Charles entered the dining-room, Erik looked up from the notebook, which he had been reading from.

‘Your handwriting is awful, Charles,’ he told him with a crooked smile.

‘I thought all doctors had awful handwriting,’ Sean said.

‘Yes, they teach us that kind of thing,’ Charles answered lightly and poured himself a cup of tea. Even the fumes made him feel more awake. ‘It’s an important part of medical training.’

‘Hank’s handwriting is impossible,’ Sean continued.

‘That’s because his hands are so big,’ Alex interjected, and Charles shot him a look. ‘Just joking, Professor X.’ When Charles noticed that Erik had put down the notebook, he asked:

‘Well, Erik? Apart from my handwriting?’

‘It’s inspired,’ he said, sounding impressed. ‘Well argued, just passionate enough.’

‘I didn’t want it to come across as polemical,’ Charles explained, glad of the praise.

‘Save it for the next one.’

‘What is it?’ Alex asked, looking from one to the other.

‘An article which, if the editors are intelligent at all, will end up in the _New York Times_ Opinions section,’ Erik said, rose and went around the table. When he placed the notebook in front of Charles, he let his hand rest on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Erik,’ he said and glanced up at him. A flicker of a smile passed over Erik’s face and he squeezed his shoulder before returning to his place.

‘What is it about?’ Sean asked between the bites of a banger.

‘Mutant rights, Sean,’ Charles said, mildly amused that he had not surmised that at once.

‘It wasn’t really likely to be about the preservation of the short-winged penguins of Antarctica,’ Erik added, and Charles laughed, almost choking on his tea. Alex stared at them both, as if they had gone mad. When Charles had recovered his bearings, Erik pointed out:

‘You’ll have to type it up.’

‘Well, of course,’ he said and looked at the squiggles he had written the previous night. ‘I just hate typewriters - I’m awful at them. Perhaps I can get Susanna to do it for me.’

Knowing that Susanna would have German that morning, after breakfast Charles followed Erik to his classroom.

‘How are the children treating you now?’ he asked on the way. After the Bedford attack, they had had no choice but to tell the children of their language teacher’s former career as a mutant terrorist, or at least agitator. Charles, not wanting to draw his sister into it, had not told them the whole truth about Magneto’s double, but they had all believed him that Mister Lehnsherr had nothing to do with the attack.

‘Well enough,’ Erik said. ‘Some of them are a little unsettled. But most of it seems to have worn off.’

‘There was really no way around it,’ Charles sighed, but was glad. It seemed like the most radical thing that had happened was that Susanna had shed her crush, even if the news had not changed his ranking on her and Betsy’s list of handsomest teachers.

The students were waiting in the corridor when they arrived. As Erik opened the door for them, Charles turned to Susanna.

‘Susanna, would you have time to type something up for me this afternoon?’ The girl blushed.

‘I - I can’t type, professor.’

‘Oh,’ he said. He had of some reason assumed that she could. Perhaps he had developed a disagreeable habit of thinking of her as a secretary - he would have to do something about that. He was just resigning himself to the fact that he probably had to type it out himself with his index fingers, when Erik tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Charles?’ Charles looked up at him and saw that he was pointing at something. ‘I think you have a volunteer.’ There in the corridor stood, Jason, one hand around his books and one raised in the air.

***

That afternoon after classes, Hank moved the typewriter to the table by the bay-windows, and Jason, seated on an extra cushion to reach properly, typed up the article, while Charles himself worked on end-of-term reports. Occasionally, he glanced up at Jason and could not help smiling at the concentration on his face. When Jason left his seat and crossed to hand over the article, Charles said:

‘Make an illusion for me.’

And suddenly they were by the sea. It rose up and lapped at the rock under their feet. Overhead, gulls were screaming their melancholy song. Charles could taste the salt in the air. A spray of water, cold in the warmth of the sun, rained against his face.

‘Thank you,’ he said. The vision faded, and he was sitting by his desk again. ‘It’s funny,’ he observed. ‘You didn’t try to scare me this time.’ Jason shrugged. ‘I think your concentration is important to it - _you_ were in control, not just your emotions. We’re making progress.’ For a split second, Charles was standing by the sea again, but now it had darkened and the waves were tipped with white. ‘What’s bothering you, Jason?’ he asked when it faded again. Jason looked away. ‘Your parents?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You don’t want to go home at the end of term,’ he supplied. There was no need to make it a question. Jason shook his head, so that his long locks fell out of the bow he had it in. Charles had not thought about it before, but now he realised that it would probably be counterproductive for the boy to go home. Colonel Stryker seemed to have little understanding for his son, and there was no telling how they would react if they saw him dressed like he was now. ‘Would you like to stay here for Christmas?’ Jason’s face lit up.

‘Can I?’ he asked. ‘Will other children be here?’

‘Yes - Scott’s staying, and Ororo, Remy and Rahne.’ Jason nodded. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Can I keep the red barrette and the coat?’ he then asked. Charles smiled.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s your payment for this.’ He waved the article. ‘Thank you.’ Understanding he had been dismissed, Jason bobbed a courtesy and left, a spring in his step. Charles smiled to himself, pushed the student reports aside and set to work on his article.

***

The idea of an end-of-term treat for the children had actually Hank’s idea. He had made all the arrangements for the school-trip to the Met, and on the day of the excursion, he lingered by the van.

‘I would have loved to come,’ he told the professor, trying very hard not to seem downcast as he counted the children who were filing into the van. ‘I love the Met - I used to go there every time I was in New York.’

‘Next time,’ Charles told him kindly from the seat beside the driver’s, even if he as well as Beast knew that it was not true. The risks were simply too great. Just as he was trying to think of something to say to cheer him up, Erik came down the steps, fedora on and coat billowing after him.

‘Do we have everyone?’ he asked, and both Hank and Charles said:

‘Yes.’ Nodding, he took the driver’s seat, handed his hat to Charles to hold. ‘Keep the fort, will you?’

‘Will do,’ Hank said with an awkward grin and closed the door. Erik turned the key and called over his shoulder to the children:

‘Buckle up!’ There was a rustle of them trying to find their belts, and then Charles told off the ones who had only pretended to put them on. When they set off down the driveway, leaving Hank waving on the steps, Charles was glad at having reprimanded them, because Erik was not a gentle driver. He suddenly remembered how he had been somewhat terrified during their summer of recruitment every time Erik was at the wheel, because he drove very fast and cut corners very finely. The children did not notice any danger in it, but called out ‘ooooh’ or ‘wheee’ every time they felt the tilt of the van. After a while they grew tired of that and all started singing Beatles songs instead. The previous week, Betsy had cycled into town and bought the most recent album, and she and Susanna had had an improvised disco in the drawing room with the music so loud that probably even Beast knew the lyrics by now.

With the children occupied, Charles asked, fearing for his life:

‘Erik, where did you learn to drive?’

‘In Katowice, in Poland,’ he said, eyes at least not leaving the road. ‘I was in a holding camp there after the war, while the Russians were trying to figure out what to do with us. They were very kind - I guess part of it was guilt. One of the soldiers who knew German took a liking to me, so he taught me to smoke, drive and drink vodka.’

‘Not at the same time, I hope.’

‘Only occasionally,’ Erik answered with a wide grin. Despite himself, Charles laughed, and then considered plugging his ears when the children started a particularly discordant rendering of “When I Get Home”.

As they drove into New York City, Charles started to grow a little more uneasy, remembering childhood visits to the Met. Raven had thought that there was nothing quite as boring as art, so to entertain her, they would race the high steps up to the entrance three times before going inside. He hoped that Erik was not planning to lift him up them - that would be far too humiliating. That the children had to watch him carry him out of the van was bad enough.

‘Erik?’ Erik hummed in acknowledgement and then swore under his breath at the car in front of them. ‘I seem to remember that there is a stair up to the entrance...‘ Erik glanced over to him with a smile and dodged a car at the same time.

‘Do you really have such a low opinion of Hank, Charles?’

They parked the van nearby and then walked the short distance to the museum building, Erik pushing Charles along and the children following, holding hands, apart from Remy, who was trotting alongside his teachers and babbling in Cajun French. Erik occasionally answered, obviously amused. At the bottom of the steps by the museum, a spotty young man employed at the museum was waiting. Erik touched Charles’ shoulder, as if to communicate that this was Hank’s doing.

‘Professor Xavier, right?’ the attendant said. ‘There’s a side-door just around the corner, sir - I’ll take you, sir.’

‘Much obliged,’ Charles answered and straightened his blanket.

‘I’ll lead the children up,’ Erik said and stepped away from him. Charles nodded, then caught his eye briefly. Then he turned away and started coaxing the children up the stair in a mixture of English, German and French.

‘They’re not all his, I hope, sir?’ the young man said cheerily as he started pushing the wheelchair towards the side-entrance.

‘Goodness, no,’ Charles laughed. ‘They’re at my school.’

‘Must be a grand thing, sir,’ he answered. True to his apparent chattiness, he started speaking about different school-classes who came to visit. Charles did not listen, but looked around, hungry for the sights of the city. It was so seldom he left the grounds, or even the mansion, and being in the heart of New York city was thrilling.

When they entered the entrance hall, the children were just being lead away by a guide.

‘Remember to behave!’ Erik called after them and then, drawing a sigh of relief, he steered his step towards Charles. Thanking the man and pressing a coin into his hand, Charles took the wheels himself and went to meet his friend.

‘Were they giving you a hard time?’ he asked.

‘You’d never think that leading fifteen children up a set of stairs would be difficult,’ Erik said, but smiled nevertheless. One again they locked eyes.

‘Where shall we start?’ Charles said when he could not bear the intensity of his stare anymore. After a moment of deliberation, Erik simply chose a direction. To both their pleasure, the section they ended up in was European nineteenth century. There was Renoir portraits of women in fancy hats and sketches of idyllic meadows, odd lively Chagals of flying lovers and crooked old men, and van Goghs, expressing all the joy and agony of the artist’s life, redressed in the shape of lone sunflowers and faces.

Then came the collection of Monets. Charles had seen them before, of course, and he had never felt particularly moved by them, but now, the whole world seemed enclosed within those paintings. He painted the sea - the grassy cliffs overlooking the bay, a stone arch rising over the waves - the mountains - where the peaks took on the same colour as the sky itself - and the winter - an intermarriage of white and grey and soft pink, which only became shapes after minutes of careful consideration. As they slowly passed around the room, Charles could feel the pleasant chill of the clouded sky and hear the wind rustling the flowers in the paintings. In The Green Wave, he sensed how the boats rocked on the disturbed sea, while at the same time, the water was so brilliantly emerald that it looked more like the flow of a lady’s evening gown than the ocean. They lingered there, and after a while, figures emerged in the boat, and something of the danger and exhilaration in the situation was evident. In _The Parc Monceau_ , depicting a host of people sitting in the shade as the sun shone through the foliage, Charles was captivated by the greens in the light. _Yes, that is how it looks, but also how it feels!_ The smell of spring was far away, but through that painting, he briefly experienced it. Erik leaned against the chair, his chin touching Charles’ hair, as he watched in equal fascination. Curiosity getting the better of him, reached out and touched his surface thoughts.

_A girl, spinning on limber feet, laughing, red hair flying after her, skirts whirling..._

He drew back, perplexed. There was no name connected to her face. It was as if he was thinking about a stranger, but how could he have a memory of someone whose name he did not know...?

‘Charles?’ Erik asked, noticing his silence.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Charles said, returning his attention to the painting. ‘The light on the lawn.’

‘Yes,’ he answered and smiled, ‘and the children sitting on the ground.’ He pointed, drawing Charles’ attention to two toddlers sitting at the feet of their mothers. Charles laughed. It was a delightful sight.

‘What about the woman in the centre, though?’ The figures in the shade were all dressed in light colours, but the figure at the very middle of the arch of trees, shielding herself from the sun with a parasol, was dressed in black. ‘She’s in mourning.’

‘Perhaps the painting is about her,’ Erik suggested. ‘She looks lonely, in that crowd.’ Charles nodded.

‘Who has she lost, I wonder?’ he said, half to himself. Erik’s hand pressed his shoulder. ‘Extraordinary. Noticing her changed the whole painting.’ Suddenly the sunlight seemed like it was mocking the poor girl. The beautiful weather and the playing toddlers and the rustle of the trees had lost their beauty. Sensing Charles’ mood, Erik rubbed his shoulder and said: ‘Let’s move on.’

The next painting made Erik give an audible sigh of appreciation.

‘ _Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies._ ’

‘Genius, isn’t it?’ Charles said. ‘All those greens! The bridge could be part of the vegetation...’

‘The reflection,’ Erik answered. Charles followed his gaze and took in the way that the reflection of the surrounding willows filled up the water mirror where it was not obscured by the water lilies. The flowers themselves - white, pink, yellow - seemed to bud in front of their eyes. They stayed silent, as if in the presence of something sacred. Their reverie was finally broken by the sound of feet beating against the floor.

‘Professor!’ Charles tore his eyes off the painting and turned to see Jason running towards them.

‘We don’t run in museums, Jason,’ he told him as the boy stopped at his side to regain his breath. Even when he stood still, it was obvious that he was very excited about something. ‘Have you escaped from the group?’

‘We’re just over there,’ Jason said and pointed at the door to the adjacent room. ‘Professor, watch this!’ Gleeful concentration changed his face and...

...Charles was standing.

‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Erik murmured and grabbed the green railing for support. The water beneath them was still, making a perfect surface. Brush-strokes of green formed the reflection. Charles laughed. ‘Are we...?’

‘...Inside the painting? Yes.’ Erik laughed too.

‘Extraordinary,’ he said, and they both looked down at the blur of water lilies under the bridge where they stood. Then Erik straightened up and looked at Charles, something between relief and apprehensiveness in his eye. ‘You’re standing up.’

‘It’s an illusion,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s just a picture in our minds.’ Erik smiled, pleased.

‘What would happen if we walked off the bridge?’ he asked. ‘You can’t see that bank on the painting.’ He pointed down at the bank of the pond.

‘He must have made it up, or possibly picked it out of another painting,‘ Charles answered. ‘As you see, it looks different from the trees behind us or the bridge. The brush-strokes aren’t as pronounced.’ Erik drew his hand over the wood experimentally and stopped only when his fingers almost touched Charles’.

‘But it feels like wood,’ he said. ‘And the smells - I can smell the flowers. This isn’t simply the painting...’

‘No, it’s a world created around the painting,’ Charles agreed. ‘It’s possible that we could walk through every single Monet painting of this garden. I don’t think we’d fall off the edge.’ Erik continued his scrutiny.

‘You’re not painted,’ he observed. ‘You look like you always do.’

‘So do you,’ Charles observed. ‘But neither of us ever sat for Monet.’

‘True,’ Erik conceded. ‘But if, say, Monet’s wife were to appear...?’

‘She would probably be a walking painting, yes.’

‘What an unsettling thought,’ he said and frowned. Charles remembered the sketched stormtroopers he had seen in the Dix illusion, and nodded in agreement. ‘But we still have free will inside the illusion?’

‘For now, we do,’ Charles said after thinking about it.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think that eventually, as Jason becomes more proficient at controlling his ability, he will be able to start changing people’s perceptions of themselves, which will mean that he can influence their actions.’

‘Doesn’t he do that already?’ Erik asked and nodded down, indicating Charles’ legs. Experimentally, he shook his legs, each in turn.

‘I still conceive of myself as being able to walk,’ he said. ‘The reasons why I cannot are purely physical, after all. But in time, he will learn how to change people’s appearances, their thought patterns - he could make people believe the illusion, not just experience it.’ Erik nodded. It was obvious that he was thinking through the uses of such an ability. Charles found it rather unsettling. He was not sure it was a good idea to train Jason’s illusions to such an extent - what if he caught someone within an illusion which went on and on? That would be devastating. Suddenly eager to escape even this idyll, he called out:

‘Well done, Jason!’

Suddenly, they were back in the gallery, watching the bridge they had just recently stood on. Jason stood expectantly at his side.

‘That was impressive,’ Charles said.

‘Can I show the others?’ he asked alertly. Charles could not remember him ever looking so happy.

‘Alright, but you have to be careful, so that no one notices,’ he told him.

‘Go show off, Jason,’ Erik urged the child. ‘It’s an extraordinary gift.’ Jason grinned and then went back to the group, trying and failing not to run. Erik turned to Charles. ‘Perhaps we should avoid the group,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be stuck with them otherwise.’

‘I’m glad Hank thought to give us some time on our own,’ Charles said, and considered it all for a moment. ‘Do you know what?’ he said and reached up, touching his arm. ‘I haven’t been in New York for ages. The paintings will be here later too - let’s go outside. Walk around - see the sights.’ Erik smiled.

‘The Apple is our oyster,’ he supplied.

‘Exactly!’ Charles glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got well over an hour.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Erik said but, as Charles drew back his hand, he caught it briefly and gave it a squeeze. A little embarrassed, Charles smiled at him, and then inclined his head to ask him to push the chair.

They found the way out of the side-entrance. As they came in line with the main entrance, Charles remembered his previous bad conscience and said:

‘Erik?’ He stopped and came around to face him. ‘I feel sorry about leaving Hank behind,’ he explained and took out his wallet. ‘Would you go and get him something? I was thinking a book with good pictures. He’s very fond of modernism.’

‘I’ve noticed,’ Erik smiled and took the notes Charles handed him. ‘I’ll be quick. Stay here.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ he promised. Erik doffed his hat at him and ascended the steps. Charles looked after him and smiled to himself. He could not remember having had such a fulfilling gallery visit since... He could not think of another time, and had to draw the conclusion that it had never happened. Why did he so seldom reflect on how fortunate he was to have a companion such as Erik? If he had been a man who believed in destiny, he would probably make some very romantic assertions about the two of them. But as things were now, he was just grateful that they had found each other, and that he had come back, and that despite everything, they were still close...

Something distracted him from his thoughts. On the other side of the road, two police cars were parked, several policemen standing by them, looking tense. One of them was speaking into the police radio. Suspense swelling inside him, Charles put his fingers to his temple.

_The Met... Confirmed... Do you need backup? ...Negative, Control. He doesn’t seem armed. ...This son-of-a-bitch doesn’t need weapons. ... In that case, request backup. ... arrest ... shoot him ... Magneto..._

Charles pushed himself out of their minds and into his own body again. His heart was beating a frenzied tattoo inside his chest. Once again he put his fingers to his temple and cast out for the right mind. _Erik! Don’t come out of the main entrance - find some other way. Get out from the back and then get back to the mansion, but make sure to do it undetected. Do you understand me?_

‘Charles?’ He looked over his shoulder, and saw Erik, walking down the stairs towards him with a parcel under his arm.

‘No,’ he whispered, but his voice was drowned by the screams of:

‘Police! Get down!’ One of the policemen jumped up and tackled Erik down onto the stairs. As he took hold of both his arms and pulled them backwards, Erik screamed. The parcel fell onto its edge and onto the damp pavement. The other policemen unlocked the safety catches on their pistols. Charles could not move. He was no longer a body, only a pair of eyes watching, unable to act, while his mind raced. _Oh God, what do I do?_

‘Gotcha, you mutant bastard,’ said one of the policemen and approached slowly, gun in both his hands. Erik stared up at it with wild eyes. His teeth gritted. But then they relaxed, and he said:

‘I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Yeah, try the other one when you’re at it!’

‘How about the thirty-four people you killed in Bedford - you know what that means, mutie scum?’ the policeman shouted at him. ‘They had wives and kids, you know. Do you care about them, huh? Jones, cuff him!’ The officer holding him down picked the manacles from his belt, snapped them around one of his wrists and then pulled at his other arm, making him scream in pain.

‘This is an unlawful arrest!’ Erik shouted. ‘You haven’t even stated the charges! I haven’t done anything wrong! I don’t know who you’re taking me for, but you’re making a mistake. My name is Max Eisenhardt - I’m a teacher - I’ve done nothing wrong, God damn you!’

Charles’ powerlessness suddenly snapped and, throwing up both hands to his head, thought: _He’s telling the truth. Believe him. He’s telling the truth._

At once, the policemen stopped and stared at each other and the man on the stairs. Their guns sank; the safety catches clicked in place again. Finally, the man with the cuffs stuttered:

‘I-I’m so sorry, sir.’ Leaning down, he took his arm and helped Erik up to his feet. As he undid the manacle, he asked: ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

‘No, not really,’ Erik said gravely and rolled his right shoulder, wincing.

‘We’re so sorry, Mister Eisenhardt,’ said the man who only moments ago had hurled abuse at him. ‘We were mistaken. We understand if you want to make a complaint...’

‘That won’t be necessary...’

‘I really think you should,’ one of the policemen said. ‘This was absolutely unacceptable.’ Embarrassed, he leaned down and took up Erik’s hat, which had fallen off. Brushing it off, he offered it to him. Erik accepted it and said:

‘We’ll see. Thank you.’ The policemen all shook his hand and apologised again, and then crossed the street, discussing their mistake under their voices. Erik picked the parcel from the pavement and approached Charles.

‘You could have been quicker,’ he commented and gave him the book.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘I froze up. Are you okay?’ Erik rubbed his shoulder, but nodded. ‘They had guns,’ he observed. ‘And the handcuffs. All that metal. You could have killed them.’ He answered with a joyless smile.

‘A few months ago, I would have.’

Charles knew little else to do than to smile compassionately and brush their hands together.

‘Let’s find a café or something - escape the attention,’ he suggested. Erik nodded his agreement and they left the museum.

***

Even this late in the year, Charles enjoyed being outside. After dinner, he had left the house, filled with the noise of children, and escaped out onto the terrace. The cold seeped through his clothes; he could smell the approaching rain. It may have been an attempt at finding a physical state which matched his mood, because he had not yet shaken off the shock of the attempted arrest. Even when it started raining in earnest, he stayed, looking into the night.

Then the smatter of rain against a surface was heard, and the drops were not falling on him anymore. Above him floated an umbrella, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw Erik approaching, one hand casually raised.

‘Show-off,’ Charles said, smiling at him. He smiled back and the umbrella jumped into his hand.

‘Hank was very pleased with his gift,’ Erik explained. ‘Even if it had been dented.’

‘Good,’ Charles said. ‘Did you ask him to have a look at your shoulder?’ Erik shook his head and put his hand on it.

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘But it’s still painful,’ Charles observed and turned around. ‘Come on, let’s go inside.’ Erik let go of the umbrella and let it float over them.

‘I made us some coffee - I thought we could need it.’

They settled in Charles’ study, and before Erik had a chance to start pouring the coffee, Charles said:

‘Let me see to your shoulder first.’ Erik rolled his eyes but undid his tie.

‘You just want me to take my shirt off,’ he said mockingly.

‘Oh, just sit down,’ Charles told him, unable not to smile.

Touching Erik like this, not with the hands of a lover, but the hands of a doctor, was strange. He reflected now that until that first burst of passion between them, the only kind of hand which had made contact with his own skin since his accident had been that bearing the clinical touch. Erik’s hands were always true to their purpose - they grabbed and they touched and they stroked - but Charles’ were fickle, able to take on different natures. Doctors’ hands were odd things - on the one hand, so salacious and intruding, on the hand, simply a tool, a way to gain information. As he tried to find damage with his fingertips and made him move his arm, he caught the eye of the man who was suddenly his patient and smiled apologetically. Erik answered his gaze, and in his eyes was assurance that he did not mind. To him, there was no difference - it was simply Charles touching him.

After not long, he broke the contact.

‘It’s just a pulled muscle. It’ll sort itself out within a week. No heavy lifting for a while, and if it hurts, rest it.’ Erik nodded in acknowledgement and pulled his shirt on again. Charles crossed to his liquor cabinet and extracted a bottle. ‘For the coffee,’ he explained.

‘Good idea,’ Erik agreed as the metal coffee pot was pouring coffee into the cups on its own. After adding the rum, they settled again, Erik still sitting on the consultation couch, not bothering to put his waistcoat and tie back on, and Charles sitting as close as he possibly could. They sipped their coffee in silence for a while, letting the heat and the alcohol work, until Erik spoke.

‘Uncle Erich used to make this for us, back in Düsseldorf,’ he said and indicated the cup. ‘My mother didn’t really approve, so he’d heat the rum a little first.’ Charles smiled at the reminiscence, briefly wondering why Erik had used a plural - arguably, he must be speaking of him and his father, but it did not quite make sense in the context.

‘Were you close to your uncle?’ he asked instead. Erik nodded.

‘He was quite a bit younger than my father,’ he explained, ‘so he became almost like an older brother to me.’

‘He lived with you?’

‘Yes - I think he could never choose which girl to marry,’ Erik admitted and smiled at the memory. ‘He was a very cheerful man. Reliable. He treated me like I had the right to know what happened. He was constantly trying to teach me things - he was a jeweller, and I think that he wanted me to become one too.’ His smile grew a little more bitter. ‘As it happens, I became quite proficient at metal.’

‘Do you...’ Charles hesitated to ask. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’ Erik shook his head.

‘I actually have no idea. He was involved with the resistance, and when it was our turn, he hid, so he never got on the train to Auschwitz with the rest of us. But what are the odds that he survived?’ He shrugged and sipped his coffee. ‘When I travelled around, before...’ He stopped himself from saying _before I met you_ , and instead said: ‘...all this, I sometimes thought I spotted him, in crowded streets, on passing trams - things like that. But it was just wishful thinking, I guess.’ Charles caught his hand and pressed it, probably too hard. He felt bad about bringing it up. Searching for a new topic to discuss, he said:

‘The first time I drank coffee, it was spiked with rum. My father let me try some of his. I absolutely hated it.’ Erik chuckled.

‘Is it better now?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Charles answered and emptied his cup. Erik refilled it and observed:

‘You don’t often talk about your parents.’

‘I guess not,’ he said and realised it was a prompting. ‘Would you like to hear?’

‘I seem to spend a lot of time discussing my childhood with you, so it only seems fair,’ Erik said and smiled at him. Charles smiled back, the hum of the spirit pleasant in the back of his head.

‘There’s a picture of them on the mantlepiece,’ he explained and pointed. Erik got up and moved his hands over them. ‘Yes, that one.’ He took it and returned to his seat to watch the two portraits. His mother looked so young, but the lace she wore seemed to trap her. His father looked like a true man of the Empire, his eyes staring out of the frame into the distance. ‘These were taken just before my father went to France,’ Charles explained. ‘They married only a month before it - they were very young. A little desperate, I think. There’s another photo from the same session, with both of them together.’

‘Why, then, the separate portraits in one frame?’ Erik asked. Charles looked away.

‘I don’t really like that picture of the two of them,’ he admitted. ‘It feels false, considering how much they ended up hating each other.’

‘You mentioned earlier that your father was in a gas attack,’ Erik said slowly, as if it was now he who was hesitant to speak of horrible things. Charles nodded, and explained:

‘It was at Passchendaele, in 1917. Mustard gas. He contracted the most horrible burns from it, here-’ he indicated his own throat and up on his jaw ‘-and on his hands. I remember those - they didn’t hurt then, but when he came back, my mother could not even hold his hand.’ He had to pause; he did not like to speak about the tragedies in his family, and on the other hand, he felt silly about calling them tragedies, considering what misfortunes Erik had had. After a gulp of coffee, he returned to the matter at hand. ‘It affected his sight too - he never really recovered. He had good days and he had bad days.’ _Whereas I only have bad days._ ‘When he came back... my mother hated him. She was young - only eighteen. She was in love. She was convinced that her husband was doing something great for his country, and he came back an invalid. Eventually, when she finally could touch him, she didn’t. She didn’t care that he learned to get by despite being practically blind - he became a brilliant physicist. She could not stand him.’ He looked down at his hand. ‘I guess that was why it took so long before they had me. They married in 1917, but no children until 1932. If it weren’t for the fact that... I know that he was, I would have doubts...’ He swallowed, feeling prudish.

‘You’d have doubts...?’ Erik prompted.

‘I would doubt if he were really my father,’ he explained. ‘But being a telepath makes it... rather easy to know these things, though.’

‘Oh.’ They sat in embarrassed silence for a while, then Erik turned to him and said: ‘“Children”?’ Charles frowned. ‘You said “no _children_ until 1932”. I thought you were an only child.’ Charles looked away, but knew that if he had started explaining his relationship to his parents, he had to include this.

‘I am, but I wasn’t going to be.’ Upon seeing Erik’s nonplussed face, he explained: ‘I had a twin sister, but she died in the womb. And... my mother wanted a girl.’ He averted his eyes. Erik’s hand covered his. ‘She just had one too many reasons to dislike me, I guess,’ he said quietly. ‘I tried so hard to please her, but...’ He trailed off again, remembering how she had never had time with him, seeming to prefer even the company of her brutish new husband to his. ‘It’s an awful thing to think,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m glad my mother never had to see me like this. She spent so much time nursing her invalid husband - I don’t know what she’d have thought if she had seen her son crippled.’ Erik pressed his hand.

‘She ought to have been proud of you, no matter what.’ Charles shrugged; she never had been, but where was the surprise in that? Not wishing to seem grumpy, he turned back to him and looked at him. The look on his face touched something deep inside of him. It was a tenderness which felt almost alien. Charles reached up and touched his cheek; Erik moved into his hand like a cat would.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t intervene earlier,’ he said, his mind back at the arrest. ‘It just goes to show I’m no good in combat situations.’

‘You saved me,’ Erik said. ‘I’m grateful for that.’ Charles hand fell; Erik caught it between his two own.

‘Why didn’t you do anything?’ he asked, watching how Erik’s weathered hands handled his own soft. ‘You could have dealt with that yourself. Were you testing me?’

‘Not at all,’ Erik answered. ‘But I knew that as soon as I did anything, I would have to kill them all, because they would know I was who they thought I was. Then... I would have to leave you there, alone with the children and with no way to get back, and the police would probably interrogate you, and then...’ _I would have to leave altogether._ Charles swallowed.

‘Max Eisenhardt,’ he said suddenly and looked him in the eye. He had seen that name in Erik’s mind, buried deep along with childhood memories. ‘You told them your real name.’ He shook his head.

‘My birth name,’ he corrected him. ‘It’s not the same thing. It’s no longer my name.’

‘How did you become Erik Lehnsherr?’ Charles asked. Erik let his hand drop.

‘Lehnsherr was my mother’s maiden name,’ he explained slowly. ‘And Erik... after my uncle.’ They sat silent for a long while. Erik was lost in memories.

‘But... when...?’

‘It was the name I gave when I arrived in Auschwitz,’ he explained. ‘I have no idea why. I’ve often wondered... but I have found no answer. It was just an impulse, to try to be someone else, as if it would make some kind of difference. It did not. But in time, it was who I became. Max died, Erik survived.’ Charles nodded to show that he understood, silently promising to continue calling him Erik.

‘I would never want you to leave,’ he said outright. He had not planned to, but it needed to be said.

‘I would never want to leave,’ Erik answered. They looked at each other for a long time, and then Charles laughed and pulled him closer. They kissed, finding absolution in the closeness. Even when the kiss ended, they stayed close. He will never leave, Charles repeated. Forever together. It was not realistic, he told himself - not with things as they were. How was it possible to love, in a world as harsh as this one, where they were threatened from all sides? Yet they did love. No, the world would not change their love. It must not. Instead, it would have to be the other way around.


	10. Chapter 10

There were occasions when Alex did not know why he stayed in the mansion. This was not one of them.

Of course, he would never think of leaving. First and foremost there was Scott, who, despite occasionally being difficult meant more to him than he liked to say. Then there was the other students. No one would catch him admitting it, of course, but when they came welling out of the building, chatting and laughing, he felt like he mattered. He did not teach them, like the professor and Hank and Erik did. He trained them, and made them learn things which he knew might one day save their skins. The professor disapproved of violence in the way only a man who had never had to fight for his life could, but he agreed that the combat training was important, which was all the encouragement Alex needed.

Still a year ago, he would probably have claimed that it was just because it was someplace to be, but from the very start, it had been something else than just a roof over his head. The mansion had rapidly become a home and the team had become a family. This evening, after the end of term, it felt more obvious than for a long time. Most of the children had gone home, and the ones who had no place to go were tucked up in bed and most probably fast asleep by now, which meant that the teachers did not have to feel bad about all the noise they were making. It was almost midnight, and by now they were all quite drunk. Sean’s head kept lolling against his arm in a comic manner, and Hank, who was blushing almost purple, was talking animatedly. The professor was propping his chin up in his hand, an inebriated smile on his face. When they had settled down, Erik had sat down on a chair beside the professor, but now he had turned to rest his head against his shoulder and put his feet up on the corner of the sofa. Professor X had his head turned towards him, and they spoke in hushed voices, occasionally laughing and sipping their drinks. Alex could not help sighing. The way they acted was only rivaled by Susanna and Betsy, who as fifteen-year old girls were entitled to giggling and gossiping. Men in their thirties were not. He could not figure out what was so special with their connection; however contradictory it was, Erik was closer to the professor than to anyone else in the mansion. He was not happy about his presence at the school, even if he was supposedly reformed now - he had to take Xavier’s word for it. Alex had still not forgiven him for what he had done to the professor. It was not just the whole spine business, but also the fact that he had just left - but between them, it seemed forgotten. If he did not know better, he would almost think...

‘Friends, Romans, countrymen!’ Hank shouted, jumping to his feet.

‘No bloody Shakespeare!’ whined Sean and buried his head in the sofa, laughing.

‘Speech!’ called the professor and banged his arm-rest with his palm.

‘Yes, speech!’ agreed Erik.

‘Give me the booze first,’ Alex said and was handed a bottle of vodka. Hank was swaying alarmingly, but kept his balance.

‘Friends,’ he said again, brandishing his glass. ‘We are not only celebrating the end of term - the end of the beginning of the second very successful year of our school.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘We are also celebrating the hero of the hour, our very own Doctor King - professor Charles Xavier!’ They all cheered, and the professor waved it away, looking a little embarrassed. Hank retrieved his glasses and a newspaper and waved it at them. ‘Today the bigots and the chauvinists have had the opportunity to read this excellent article...’

‘Hank, please don’t read it aloud,’ Charles said. ‘It’d be embarrassing.’

‘We’ve all read it anyway,’ Alex pointed out.

‘You don’t sound so excited,’ Erik observed.

‘It was just a bit... careful,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And you sounded like you were dying to bring up the Civil Rights movement and then you didn’t in the end.’

‘Of course I wanted to mention the Civil Rights movement, but coming from me, it would come out wrong,’ the professor said and shrugged with his free shoulder. ‘Supporters of the Civil Rights Movement would point out that I was trying to make their argument arbitrary, or even that I was trying to undermine their cause by associating them with a group which is considered criminal. Besides, those who oppose the Civil Rights movements would become opposed to us in no time at all.’

‘Although most of them probably already are,’ Erik added.

‘I think it’s completely obvious what you’re referring to,’ Hank said and peered at the newspaper. ‘“In an age where the right of every citizen is marshalled, where the equal value of every man, woman and child has become a beacon to light the way, oppression in any form has become abhorrent to us, and no exception should be made, least we lose the moral high-ground we claim to have obtained”...’

‘I should have mentioned the Universal Declaration of Human Rights,’ the professor mused. ‘Next time, perhaps.’

‘They would just claim that we aren’t human,’ Erik pointed out. ‘That was how they kept Frost without trail for so long.’

‘ _Are_ we human?’ Alex asked. He had not really thought about that.

‘If a mutant can have fertile offspring with a human, then we are the same species,’ Hank observed, sitting down again. He seemed to have given up the plan of holding a speech.

‘Are you asking us to go and knock someone up to check?’ Sean wondered.

‘You’ve had enough,’ Hank announced and promptly spilled half his glass over the carpet. The professor chuckled. Alex watched as he tapped Erik on the shoulder and said:

‘There’ll probably be reactions in tomorrow’s paper. I think it’s time for bed.’ Erik stood up, looking much steadier than Alex had expected, and put both his and the professor’s glasses aside.

‘I’m putting the hero of the hour to bed,’ he said. ‘Don’t wake the children, would you?’ The professor waved at them and bid them good night as Erik pushed him out of the room. Alex looked after them, trying to quench the unsettling feeling the scene gave him.

***

Charles woke next morning, hungover and confused, after having dreamt a particularly vivid nightmare. He had been having dinner with his mother the old-fashioned way, with all the guests in evening-wear. Erik had sat beside him, and even if his looks were pristine, Charles had worried that there was really something wrong with his clothes and that his mother would notice and point it out. She did not, but instead kept dropping remarks about the war, again and again saying, ‘Lehnsherr - isn’t that a German name?’ When she had finally dropped the matter, she instead complained about the staff, and it was only then that Charles had realised that Hank was serving. ‘I told you to stay in the kitchen, Hank, what are you doing here?’ he hissed at him when he poured him wine, but Hank pretended not to hear. Then suddenly, Raven burst in and sat down, and Charles started worrying that she might be planning to make a scene by letting her dress slip off. Was there at all any way, if that were to happen, to make sure that his mother did not notice?

Unsettled by the chaotic domestic scene his subconscious had presented him with, probably caused by the imminent responses to his article, he was glad that there was no need to get up at once. As the aspirin started working, he lay with Erik’s head propped against his chest, and even when they felt a little better, they did not rise at one. When they finally went downstairs for breakfast, the newspaper was laid out at his place. When he hesitated, Erik told him:

‘Just do it - get it over with.’

‘Like pulling off a band-aid,’ Charles said. Of course it was nothing like it, because pulling a band-aid did not cause a wound. After a rather dispirited breakfast, they moved into Charles’ study, where Erik reread the responses and Charles rearranged the pens on his desk.

‘Was I wrong to write it now?’ he asked when Erik put it down. ‘Considering those people who died, as they said...’

‘You mean that we should not discuss atrocities through misguided worry for their families?’ Erik supplied. ‘That is ridiculous - in fact, it is offensive. Personal feelings should not enter into public debate, which most of these authors have not realised.’

‘Did I really come across as a - what was it? - “overprivileged scientist content to watch the crisis from his ivory tower”?’ Charles asked.

‘That one only read what you wrote about genetics and missed the human rights,’ Erik observed and came to perch on the desk, his hand on Charles’ shoulder. He in turn moved his pens in order of size, but when he was about to rearrange them yet again, Erik took his hand. ‘Write another article. Tell them yet again why they are wrong.’

‘And then?’ he said, leaning back.

‘They won’t listen, not at once,’ he conceded, ‘but if you simply let it drop, they will remain ignorant. Continue argue against them, and they may start to listen, which means that they can be convinced. Not all of them, but perhaps some, and they will be valuable allies.’ Charles could not help smiling.

‘I rather think you have become my voice of sanity,’ he observed. Erik laughed.

‘God help us.’ In unison, they moved together and kissed carefully, as if any sudden movement might stir their tamed headaches. When Erik drew back, Charles smiled at him, grateful for his encouragement, even if he did not always agree with him. Erik smiled back, but then his face grew alarmed; he had noticed how Charles’ eyes grew unfocused briefly. ‘Charles?’

Charles swallowed to compose himself.

‘I’m afraid that this day just got rather worse,’ he said. ‘The Strykers are on their way here.’

***

In the ten minutes until the Strykers’ car came up the driveway, there was a panicked flurry to get the parts of the house they would see in order. When the car engine stopped in front of the front door, Sean had just removed the last bottles from the study. Charles and Alex were at the top of the steps to greet the guests.

‘Colonel - what a pleasant surprise,’ Charles said and stretched out his hand preemptively. It took the couple a few seconds to ascend the steps, and even when they did so, the gruff colonel hesitated at shaking his hand. Finally politeness won out and he took his hand, but drew back as soon as he could, staring at his hand as if he might have been contaminated by something. His wife, from whom Charles sensed pity and urgency rather than anger and disgust, shook his hand more firmly and smiled at his compliments. The niceties over, he gestured inside. ‘Shall we talk in my study?’ Alex opened the door for them, falling in line after the Strykers. He was simply there to provide a buffer, in case Stryker had planned to start quarreling as soon as he got out of the car. Charles could feel his frustration at being the muscle, so when Alex held the door to the study open, he nodded at him and smiled appreciatively.

‘Have fun,’ Alex muttered under his breath and left.

Colonel Stryker looked around the study, part suspicious and part curious. He took in the armchairs, the couch, the books on psychology and biology and physics, the photographs on the mantlepiece. Not trying to hide his verdict, he wrinkled his nose in disapproval.

‘Please, take a seat,’ Charles said, pretending that he had not noticed the scrutiny. As soon as they had sat down, Stryker reached into his inner pocket and drew out an envelope, which he threw onto the desk. It bore the emblem of the school.

‘You sent us this.’ His voice was much calmer than Charles had expected it to be.

‘Jason’s end-of-term report,’ Charles said. ‘Did we send you the wrong letter by accident?’ He knew that it was not the case; already he sensed how this discussion would go. Still, his false cheerfulness seemed to convince Stryker, who quenched a momentary bout of annoyance.

‘No, professor, it’s Jason’s,’ he said, his voice tense. ‘But to be frank, I don’t care if he’s not quite top-of-the-class in maths or enjoys French literature. That’s not what I sent him here for.’ Charles threw out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘This is a school,’ he explained. ‘We teach the children what you would expect.’

‘I sent my son here to be cured,’ Stryker pointed out sharply. ‘Now all I’m told is that there’s been “progress”, and a “recommendation” that he spends the vacation here.’

‘That’s all it was - a recommendation,’ Charles said diplomatically. He took care to hide his annoyance that that was all he could do. ‘But if you did not agree with it... well, I had expected you to call first.’ Stryker did not answer his smile.

‘How long until my son is cured, Xavier?’

‘There is nothing to cure about his abilities,’ Charles sighed. ‘It is not an illness. Would you ask me to cure him if Jason were highly musical?’

‘That is not the same thing,’ Mrs Stryker said suddenly. Her high-pitched voice had a tremble to it. Worry for her son seeped off her.

‘I would argue that it is,’ Charles answered. ‘After all, we are fast to encourage and award excellence in so many other ways - so why not in for example forming illusions?’

‘Do you think you’re clever, arguing in the national press and all?’ Stryker asked tartly. ‘It was a godawful article, _Professor_. Are we wasting your time? Are _you_ wasting our money? Because I don’t think that you’re taking our son’s condition seriously.’ The headmaster paused, realising the importance of treading carefully.

‘Nothing is being wasted,’ he said calmly. ‘Colonel, when your son came to my school, he was verging on autistic. Now, his self-confidence has improved considerably, he interacts with the other students, he has made friends...’

‘And has he stopped making people see things?’ Stryker pressed.

‘He can control it,’ Charles repeated.

‘I don’t want him to be able to do it at all!’ he exclaimed, bristling. Then, drawing a deep breath, he announced: ‘This isn’t good enough. Jason should be at a mental institution, not some school.’

‘With all due respect, Colonel, Jason’s medical needs are being seen to,’ Charles assured him. ‘How they would treat him at a mental hospital does not bear thinking about.’

‘At least they wouldn’t try to glorify these ungodly abilities of his,’ Stryker said through gritted teeth.

Charles’ reply was cut short by a knock on the door. Erik stepped in, closing the door behind him, and gave the professor a telling look. His small movements as clear as semaphore, he pressed his thumb, ring and little finger to his palm and extended the two other fingers. Charles mirrored the gesture and put his fingers to his temple, finding the memory Erik directed him to.

 _The floor of the dormitory is cold under his cheek where he lies on his stomach - a nail is working its way through the knee of his trousers, but he ignores it. His attention is on the bundle wedged under the bed, shaking._

 _‘Komm mal raus, Kind.’_

 _‘No, no, no....’_

 _‘They will not hurt you,’ he tells her. One blue eye and one green stares at him through the darkness, like a cat’s._

 _‘But they_ have.’

 _‘They are your parents. They only want to see you. Why do you hate them?’ The eyes blink, and she leaps from under the bed. He tries to scramble away, startled, but he knows that all she wants is comfort, and when she curls up against him to cry against his chest, he holds her. Her body feels so frail. Children - such strange creatures. How can they grow up to become so vile? Where is that innocence lost? But how could anyone want to hurt this? A wayward mutant child is no less vulnerable than a human child, even if it is more dangerous. Whatever Jason can do towards her parents, now she is simply a child, shaking with fear._

 _‘Don’t give me to them, Mister Lehnsherr,’ she sobs. ‘They’ll kill me.’_

The memory was followed by a thought, like an addition to a report. _The child is right, Charles. These people want a human son - not a mutant daughter. They must not take her._

‘Who the hell are you?’ It was Stryker who had broken the silence.

‘Colonel, this is Erik Lehnsherr,’ he explained, and Erik approached. He did not speak, finding that no polite phrase felt appropriate, but bowed his head a little and shook their hands. As the colonel shook his hand, Charles saw him measuring up the newcomer, as if recognising a fellow fighter. It did not seem to change his low opinion of him. ‘Mister Lehnsherr teaches German and French,’ Charles explained.

‘Your son has a talent for languages,’ Erik offered. Mrs Stryker winced at his accent. Usually her disapproval was so restrained, but this was something which she felt was within the realms which her husband let her understand and she could disapprove of.

Deciding to address the issue at hand, Charles said:

‘Colonel, I must ask - are you planning to take your son home?’

‘Are you threatening to keep him?’ Stryker asked, challenging him. Charles forced himself to chuckle, pretending it was all a joke, but as he spoke, he concentrated.

‘By no means.’ _Your son should stay._ ‘I simply think that it may be better if your son remained here.’ _Your son should stay._ ‘After all, it is not constructive for children to be thrown between different environments.’ _Your son should stay._ They nodded, not placated but still content.

‘Very well,’ Stryker said and rose. ‘But I expect results, Xavier.’

‘Of course,’ Charles said and smiled, false appreciation on his face. Mrs Stryker rose too, but more reluctantly.

‘Where is Jason?’ she asked, clutching her bag. ‘It’s his birthday next week, and I wanted to give him his present...’

‘Jason has a mild head-cold,’ Erik said before Charles had time to act. ‘I advised him to stay in bed - I think he’s asleep.’

‘If you leave it with me, I’ll make sure he gets it,’ Charles offered. Sighing, she took a soft wrapped gift from her bag and handed it to him. He placed it on the desk and gestured to the door. ‘We’ll walk you.’

They made their way outside in silence, and the farewell was strained. Stryker took his wife by the arm and lead her quickly down the stairs, and as soon as they stepped onto the gravel, he started speaking, perfectly aware that they could still hear him.

‘Who do these people think they are? They’re just a bunch of freaks who think they can say whatever they want. That professor must be a queer. And the kind of people he employs! As if it wasn’t bad enough that they’re all muties. White trash, foreigners, Jews...’ Erik’s hand closed into a fist. Charles grabbed his wrist.

‘Erik,’ he muttered, calling him to control himself as the Strykers stepped into the car.

‘I could break something inside the engine, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘What good would come of it?’ Charles asked. Erik shook off his hand.

‘More than you’d accept, I think.’ Then he turned on his heel and went inside again. Charles followed, and together they went back to the study. Well there, Erik lit a cigarette, as if to do something to calm himself. As Charles started to clean and stuff his pipe, he pointed out:

‘That man is no better than Schmidt.’ Charles glanced up; it was not a verdict Erik would make lightly. They smoked in silence, until Erik said: ‘You can’t let him take the child.’

‘Well, if he insists, we don’t really have a choice,’ Charles sighed. ‘I can’t bend his mind every time, and I don’t think I’ll ever convince him the conventional way.’ He paused and blew a half-formed smoke-ring. ‘He’s Jason’s father - we’re just his teachers. We have no say in the matter.’

‘You saw how scared Jason is of him,’ Erik said sharply. ‘You couldn’t possibly...’ He broke off and stared out of the window. ‘It seems abhorrent, that anyone should treat their child like that,’ he said. ‘I scarcely thought it possible.’ Charles looked away, understanding the workings of his mind all too well. Erik’s family had been his one refuge from hatred, the only thing standing between him and those intent on destroying them. Even now, twenty years after their deaths, he loved them fiercely and uncompromisingly. To imagine someone not having that, on top of being hated by society... _If I turned out the way I did, what kind of monster will poor Jason become?_

‘Stryker’s human - couldn’t we use human means against him?’ Erik asked.

‘Are you suggesting calling in social services?’ Charles said sceptically.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it wouldn’t work,’ he explained. ‘Stryker has friends in high places. The matter would be hushed up at once. Social services doesn’t care about well-to-do families, Erik. As far as they are concerned, children from good homes aren’t mistreated.’

‘That is a fallacy,’ Erik pointed out.

‘Of course it is,’ Charles said with a shrug, ‘but it suits their purpose.’

‘That is all it comes down to,’ he sighed.

‘I’m afraid that there are other reasons why we need to stay on the right side of Stryker,’ Charles admitted. This was something he had not really explained to any of the others, but it suddenly seemed important that Erik should know. ‘Stryker’s doing us a favour by keeping the CIA off our backs. When he contacted me about Jason, it was the deal we reached.’ Erik considered this.

‘Is Jason a hostage?’ he asked matter-of-factly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charles said. ‘It’s more likely that his father thinks of his son as a booby-trap, which I could plant, or a scandal I could bring down on him, but if I do, he will disclose our location to the CIA... perhaps even make the information public.’

‘“Mutant training camp in New York State”?’ Erik said, suggesting a headline.

‘“Corruption of youth for the good of evolution?”’

‘“Oxford don in mutie school scandal”.’

‘“Former terrorist teaches French romantics”.’ At that point, they both burst out laughing. When they finally calmed down, some of the previous gloom had been dispelled.

‘I don’t want to deal with that man when I’m hungover again,’ Charles said. Erik brushed their hands together.

‘Next time, just say the word and I’ll pour you a drink before he gets here.’

‘With ideas like that, I should make you my deputy,’ Charles answered, and once again they laughed.

***

Outside of term, the mansion seemed to grow. It was a huge house; back in its day, it had been staffed by an army of maids, footmen, chars and cooks. The auxiliary forces for the garden and the grounds had been even bigger. That had been before Charles’ time, but he remembered the servants in their starched aprons and rustling skirts who had still worked there when he had been little. By the time he went off to university, his mother had only been able to keep a maidservant and a cleaning lady, as well as a part-time cook; during the war, most of the girls had realised that working in a munitions factory paid better, so, inspired by Rosie the Riveter, they had disappeared, shedding their lace aprons for head-cloths and overalls.

Now, there were only ten of them left, and it left the mansion, usually so full of life, empty. The division between teachers and students blurred, when they all took their meals together in the dining room, and the children sat with the adults in the drawing room in the evenings, when they wanted to. Charles was afraid that they might go wandering around the mansion and either end up snooping or getting lost, so it was better that they were encouraged to spend time with them. Hank took it upon himself to entertain them and lead them on a spree of making various Christmas decorations out of paper, hay and sequins. Both Sean and Alex seemed glad that term was over, and spent the time catching up on sleep and training, while Charles shared Hank’s sense of being understimulated. Hoping to keep idleness away, he spent his days writing down article ideas, and drafting Christmas shopping lists.

But while the others were in good spirits, Erik was growing pensive and unpredictable. One day, Rahne played with the other children in wolf-form and ran right in front of Erik, so that he almost tripped over the scurrying animal. His response had been to scream at her in German until she turned back into a child and started weeping. Sean came running to the site and tried to comfort her, but Erik stalked off before Charles had time to stop him and ask what had set off the tantrum, because it was obvious that it was only a symptom. Most of the time, however, he would simply slip away from the others, often so discreetly that Charles did not notice it until he was gone. When he looked for him, he would most often find him in his room, deep in thought. He had resolved not to read his thoughts, but his attempts to bring up the subject had led to nothing. Being excluded from the workings of his friend’s mind annoyed him, even if he tried to tell himself that Erik was under no obligation of telling him. But he wished he knew - then, at least, he could help. _Unless... it is about us. Or about his being here. Or about what the world is coming to._ Charles fought his own frustration, fearing it might turn into resentment or suspicion.

He supposed that his eventual transgression, a fortnight after the end of term, could be blamed on a lapse of concentration. They had gone to bed, and Charles was slipping off, while Erik lay, chest pressed against Charles’ back, still wide awake. In that twilight state, it felt almost like a reflex to dip into Erik’s mind. The realisation shook him awake, and he retreated, but he had stayed long enough to read that part of his mind. He pressed a hand against his mouth, afraid that he might laugh with the relief. _I was wrong - thank God, I was wrong. It’s not about us at all._ Then he remembered what actually was the reason, and his exclamation seemed ironic. What was causing such turmoil within Erik was the thought of religion. Now when he thought about it, Charles realised that he should have anticipated it. With everyone getting increasingly excited about Christmas, it was bound to make him feel excluded.

But there was nothing to do about it now. So Charles found his hand and pressed it, and settled to sleep.

Even now, when he had identified the reason for Erik’s pensiveness, it took Charles several days to figure out a way to breach the subject. It was on the twenty-third of the month during a walk, just as they were approaching the old paddocks, that Charles decided to speak. Knowing that there was no way to start such a conversation which would not be blunt, he asked:

‘Do you consider yourself religious at all, Erik?’ He heard Erik harrumphing from his position behind the wheelchair.

‘God and I are not on speaking terms,’ he said finally. Charles considered this.

‘That implies that you believe in the existence of God, but... do not approve of dogma? Or simply feel alienated by it?’ Erik made no reply, and Charles dared not press him, afraid that he might overstep some line. When they reached the stables and Erik sat down on the stone steps as he always did, Charles decided that it was decent to at least offer him an explanation. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that I’ve noticed that it’s been on your mind lately.’ Erik shot him a look. ‘I haven’t read your mind without permission,’ he added, hoping to convince himself as well. ‘Some thoughts have... bled through.’ Erik sighed and shifted, leaning back against the wall of the stable. It seemed like a physical sign of resignation, acknowledging that he did not mind. They sat in silence for a long time, both waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, Charles decided to break the ice. ‘Is it all that talk of Christmas?’ Erik gave a minute nod. ‘I didn’t realise it upset you - I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t really upset me, only... makes me think,’ Erik said. Charles found it rather a relief that he decided to speak at all. When Erik noticed his gaze on him, he sighed yet again and rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know if I want to talk about it. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I want to understand,’ Charles answered.

‘The fact remains...’ The statement was finished with a melancholic smile.

‘I could...’

‘No.’ It came out very sharp - Charles was momentarily taken aback by the sudden anger in his voice.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But please, would you explain it to me?’ He could feel Erik’s resistance wearing thin, but still reminded himself to tread carefully. He had not seen his friend this disquieted for a long time. Now, Erik leaned his elbows on his knees and, clasping his hands, spoke.

‘The past few months, I have started considering you and the school, as... family.’

‘We are a family,’ Charles said quickly. ‘All of us.’ Erik dipped his head, as if conceding his point. It was a family far from the norm - all he had was a lover, a few grudging friends, children who were not his own. ‘Why does that bother you?’ he asked softly.

‘Because we are not a family in every way,’ Erik answered, sounding bitter now. ‘In some ways, we are strangers. That is what I have realised recently.’

‘Does it matter?’ But even as he said it, Charles knew that it did. Along with Ororo, Erik was the only non-Christian at the school, and that was bound to make him feel isolated. ‘You know that no one at the school would...’ He struggled for a euphemistic enough term, and failed. ‘I mean, they are all tolerant people.’

‘I can bear intolerance, and I would not expect it from anyone in the school. Besides, I don’t know if my faith is generally known - not because of any attempts to hide it, of course. It has simply not come up in conversation. Sean, at least, still seems to think that I let him have my portion of bacon out of the goodness of my heart.’ Charles smiled at that, but it faded quickly. ‘If you’re worried that Stryker’s casual hatred hurt me worse than it hurt you, rest assured that there is no need to upset yourself about it,’ Erik said gravely. Charles gathered his courage and asked:

‘Why are you not on speaking-terms with God?’ Erik snorted.

‘I don’t see how I could be,’ he replied. ‘Jews do not believe in Hell, Charles, yet I have been there. How could He simply let us be killed like that? The Chosen People - chosen for what? Constant persecution? Industrialised slaughter?’ This was a new kind of anger, Charles reflected. He could not remember ever having seen someone so angry with God. It made Erik’s hands shake, and in an attempt to let it out, he got to his feet and started pacing. ‘All that devout studying and learning should have made my people fit for more than to feed the flames of the crematoria. Should it not have given us some protection, some right not to be treated like animals?’ He stopped, and as he turned his face up towards the cold winter sun, Charles saw a single tear trail down his cheek. ‘The Nazis did not just kill us because they thought we were racially inferior,’ he said. ‘They despised everything about us and our heritage - they were as intent on ridding the world of our religion as our genes.’ He turned his face down again, but his eyes remained open, as if the horrors would grow nearer if he closed them.

‘You know they had no right,’ Charles said finally. ‘Don’t let what they did to you and yours change you.’

‘How could it not?’ Erik exclaimed, whirling around to face him. ‘It’s easy for you to say, but if you knew...’ He paused, overcome with emotion. ‘In the camps, they made foot-patches out of _taleisim_ , Charles. They took them from the luggage of those they gassed, and made us sew foot-patches from them.’ The memory which had risen inside him, so suddenly that Charles thought he could see it move to the front of his mind, provided the explanation he needed. _The texture of the prayer shawl against his feet - the mismatched, too big clogs making him bleed into it - with every step, he grows more ashamed, because he is make to act out their hatred in their stead._

‘How can anyone bear such humiliation?’ Erik asked quietly. ‘Every scrap of knowledge about our customs, our faith, they used against us. My father was a devout man, and they made him and men like him strip naked before forcing them into the gas-chambers, and then they cut off his beard and hair to stuff mattresses with. How can I simply go on, as if none of it happened? How can anyone?’

‘You mean that your faith has been... tainted?’

‘Yes,’ Erik answered, sounding at once exhausted. ‘Ripped away from us and ground in the dirt and now handed back. That was one thing they succeeded with. I sometimes wish I could proclaim myself a non-believer - atheism would be less painful. But it would leave phantom pains, I suppose, and my conviction of God’s existence runs too deep.’ Slowly, he returned to the steps and sat down. ‘Sometimes I hate how unobservant I have grown,’ he confided. ‘I envy those who still trust their God. I simply cannot. I realised, only a week ago, that I did not even know when Hanukkah fell his year. It was in the end of November - I must have spent those days marking papers and dealing with students.’

‘There is no reason why you shouldn’t find a congregation,’ Charles said. ‘I think there’s one in town.’ Erik shook his head firmly.

‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I... could not. Even if I occasionally want to.’ He unclipped his cufflink and made it spin around his hand. ‘This makes me as much a monster in their eyes as in anyone else’s. I’m an outcast even among my own people.’

‘“I will break in pieces the gates of brass, and cut in sunder the bars of iron”,’ Charles quoted. Erik replaced his cufflink and sneered.

‘That is a reference to the Messiah,’ he pointed out sternly, but nevertheless seemed entertained by Charles’ ability to quote Isaiah off by heart. ‘Not in the least appropriate.’

‘I suppose,’ Charles said with a shrug. ‘I didn’t really mean anything by it - I simply came to think of that verse. There was always something in it that caught my imagination.’ To his relief, Erik actually smiled at him, even if his sadness lingered. ‘If there is anything - anything at all - I can do to help...’ Erik took his hand and pressed it.

‘This time, my friend, you cannot help,’ he said. ‘But thank you all the same.’

‘You know I am happy to listen.’ He refrained from answering, and it struck Charles suddenly that, despite everything, when it came to this he was as much as stranger as anyone else. But Erik did not seem to notice the realisation, and spoke.

‘If I make myself scarce the next few days, it is not because of any spite. Mostly it is that I don’t like crowds, particularly ones where people expect you to be happy.’

‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘I understand.’

As Erik pushed him back towards the mansion, Charles considered what had been said, and thought of the first time they had walked this route, when Erik had said that being here “stirred things” - memories. Perhaps it was not just the impending holiday after all, but a greater process at work. All the different facets of him - Max Eisenhardt, Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto - were merging, but like the healing of a broken bone, it took time, and the process was painful and slow.

Erik was barely to be seen during all of Christmas Eve. As Charles watched the children decorating the Christmas tree, he cast his out mind to find him, afraid that he might be alone and miserable. He found that he was on the top floor, perched in a bay window with a blanket and a book. There he stayed practically all day, hidden away from the bustle and the stress of the lower floors. The dejection Charles had expected was not there at all. Instead, there was a kind of resigned content, enabled by the escapism of the novel he was reading. He was still there when Charles went to bed, and he sent him a fond thought. He held the contact for a few moments, and felt a flare of love responding to his wordless message. It was enough to put his worries to rest.

On Christmas morning, Charles woke early, alone for the first time in months. From downstairs, he could sense the yawning church-goers at the breakfast table. He had declined going with them the previous day, but now he lay still, listening to them getting ready. As they pulled on coats and stepped into shoes and left, Charles thought about what a strange force religion was. To him, it had not been an active one for many years. At the age of fifteen, he had spent some time thinking about it, and had come to the conclusion that there was no way of proving or disproving the existence of God. He was convinced that religion could be a positive force, but as soon as he had started studying the sciences, it had stopped doing anything for him. The quirks and turns in evolution seemed to him random, sometimes even callous, but there was a beauty to the unpredictability. The wonders of nature were to him self-contained. He knew that it did not have to be so - through his microscope, Hank glimpsed something divine in the workings of the world, and it was the same marvel at the cosmos which drove his research that made him don a hat and trench-coat and sit hunched in the back of the church this morning. Charles had been raised to such religiosity, but he had shed it, which had vexed his mother. But it had been a conscious decision, one which he had ultimately been glad to make. He had never lost his faith, but given it up. Experimentally, he clasped his hands and tried to remember the prayers he had been taught as a child. _Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum..._

But it was just words to him, words in a dead language which he had half forgotten. It held no emotional importance to him anymore. With some relief, he unclasped his hands. He had never thought about how different giving up your faith voluntarily was to having it wrenched away. If he remembered correctly (and memories of teenage years often seemed exaggerated), the discussions on the topic with his mother had been bitter, and involved some amount of shouting, but after that, it had caused him little pain. Now he recalled his discussion with Erik the other day, and felt a swell of pity, but also a stab of longing for the man. At once, the bed seemed wrong without Erik in it. Once again, he reached out with his mind. Ororo was fast asleep in her dormitory on the other side of the building, and the others had left. Satisfied that he would not run into anyone, he found his dressing-gown, moved to his wheelchair and left his room.

When he reached Erik’s door, he did not bother to knock, but simply opened it. At the sound of the creaking hinges, Erik jerked awake, shaking off the slumber and sitting up. Then he realised who the intruder was, and with a sigh he sank down against the pillow again.

‘What’s the time, Charles?’ he muttered.

‘Just after six AM,’ he answered and made sure to close and lock the door before crossing to the bed. ‘The others are at church.’ They looked at each other for a drawn-out moment. ‘I thought we might...’ Erik propped himself up on his elbows and grinned.

‘...Add to the sinfulness of the household?’ he suggested. Charles laughed nervously.

‘If you’d be up for it.’ Erik moved to give him room and cocked his head.

‘Come to bed, then.’ Charles crossed to the bed and started maneuvering himself onto it. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, Erik grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. He laughed into the kiss and pulled his legs straight, even as Erik undid the sash in the night-gown. Charles watched as he hitched up his pyjamas jacket, edged lower and kissed his nipple. A strangled shout escaped his throat. His hand lay against Erik’s groin, and his other hand cupped his cheek and brought him up for a kiss. As their caresses grew more focused and then more desperate, he wondered if this was their way of coping. They escaped by finding refuge in physical pleasure, simple irrefutable intimacy. Was that a form of cowardice, or simply a way to stay sane? It had to mean something on its own as well - _they_ had to have meaning. Needing to say it and hear himself say it, as they lay close, catching their breath, he said:

‘I love you.’ It felt a cliché thing to say, but rather than chiding him for it, Erik’s embrace tightened.

‘ _I_ love you,’ he whispered into his ear and then rested his lips against it, frustrated at the semantic emptiness of the words. They felt inadequate and too obvious, made prosaic by too many insincere speakers.

‘I know,’ Charles assured him and, nestling his hand between them, pressed it over his heart. Even when they had been enemies, he had not doubted it. ‘I feel it.’ It passed between them with every look, and later when their intimacy once again deepened, Charles sensed every part of it, all the beauty and the pain and the searing unquenchable longing for it all to last a little longer and grow a little more intense. This went beyond any simple, romantic association - it was unbridled, violent, all-consuming. It was like the thrusts of a desperate lover, the tight embrace of a husband called away to war, the fierce pain of a broken heart even before it had been smashed, but also the steadfastness of a comrade-in-arms, the touching shoulders of brothers at the dawn of battle, the clasped hands of friends for comfort and guidance in the mist. That was something Charles could believe in.


	11. Chapter 11

_“These are for playing with, not for blowing up”_ , said the note, written in the professor’s flourishing handwriting, which was attached to the hard rectangular gift in Remy’s hands. That told him at once what it contained, but when he peeled away the paper, he grinned in delight at the sight of the large, beautifully printed paying-cards. He was already wearing his other Christmas gift, a blue jumper with a diamond pattern which _petite_ Jason claimed looked like something her mother would knit. She in turn had on the red cardigan she had just received, and was looking through the book on rococo art she had also been given. The others were equally busy with their gifts - they seemed all to have been given jumpers.

‘Game of cards, anyone?’ Remy asked and held up the new pack of cards. Scott groaned.

‘You’ll just cheat,’ Ororo observed.

‘I never cheat, _ma cherie_!’

Rahne, who was sitting beside Jason, shifted. The two could not look less alike - it seemed to be part of her mutation that her hair never grew longer than a wolf’s hide, and her cropped red hair stood in stark contrast with her somber dark dress. Jason was dressed in brilliant red, and her hair reached beyond her shoulders. Since she had arrived, Rahne’s complaints about her own hair had increased considerably.

‘Can’t we play hide-and-seek instead?’ she asked timidly. Ororo went a little pale; the thought of hiding in confined spaces always unsettled her. ‘You could count,’ Rahne added quickly.

‘You’re all so _childish_ ,’ Scott (who was fourteen, and therefore thought himself superior to the rest of them) said.

‘Come on, _mon ami_ , don’t disappoint the ladies,’ Remy (who was thirteen and dreaded that he might become a bore like Scott next year) said. ‘It’s no great sacrifice.’

‘If Remy is ready to pass by playing cards for it, it really is Christmas,’ Jason observed.

‘Fine,’ Scott muttered. ‘But no powers! It’s not fair if Jason makes herself invisible, or if Rahne turns into a wolf and hides in some cupboard...’ They waved away his protests and, leaving Ororo to count, set off in different directions.

Remy went northwards, up the stairs. The attic, or at least the higher floors, would make an excellent hiding place. It would take Ororo hours to find them, in a house as big as this. Suddenly called back to the world, he stopped. In the far end of the corridor he had run down, there was a deep-set window, and in it, someone sat, long legs curled up under him to fit in the alcove. Remy knew there was a risk that he might be shouted at for making a racket, and was just about to turn and leave, when Mister Lehnsherr looked up and his keen eyes pinned him to the spot.

‘What kind of trouble are you getting up to, Remy?’ he asked, a hint of entertainment in his voice.

‘Just playing hide-and-seek, _M’sieur_ ,’ Remy answered, and then added: ‘It was Rahne’s idea.’ He may not be a bore like Scott, but hide-and-seek was admittedly a little childish.

‘Then you shouldn’t disappoint Rahne by being the first to get caught,’ the teacher pointed out.

‘ _Bien sûr_ ,’ he said and turned to leave. Then he remembered something and turned around again. ‘You’ll be at the Christmas dinner, won’t you, _Monsieur_ Lehnsherr?’

‘We’ll see,’ he said and made a noncommittal gesture. ‘It all depends.’ The idea that anyone would willingly skip Christmas dinner was beyond Remy’s understanding.

‘Ororo promised to make snow,’ he said, voice turning a little shriller than he had planned. He had assumed that Mister Lehnsherr would respond with appreciation of some kind, but instead, his face darkened suddenly. For a moment, Remy thought he glimpsed something moving behind his eyes, something terrifying and soul-breaking, but then the next moment it was gone.

‘I’m not sure how much I enjoy the snow,’ he said hollowly. Then, composing himself, he gave Remy a pointed look. ‘You should find a hiding-place, or whoever’s counting will find you in plain sight.’ Not knowing what to say, Remy nodded and ran down the corridor. The attic would be the best place after all.

***

Erik stayed in his bay window reading for most of Christmas Day. Charles found that despite all the joy of Christmas celebrations, from Hank’s superb turkey to when Jason climbed into his lap to present him with a pair of badly knitted gloves he had made, his mind would always return to his friend. Charles had retired to his room when he came down, the book closed under his arm.

‘That’s how I used to spend my Christmases, before Raven came to live here,’ Charles observed. ‘I’d read myself through it all.’ Erik put the book aside.

‘I didn’t mean to be impolite,’ he said. ‘I don’t enjoy large gatherings, when everyone are expected to be happy. It grows oppressive.’

‘I missed you, and the children asked for you, but don’t worry about it,’ Charles said and smiled assuringly. ‘I’m glad to see you.’ Erik answered his smile and took his hand. ‘Erik?’

‘Mm?’

‘I don’t know if it’s the done thing, but... I’ve got you a gift.’ The change it brought to Erik’s face was hard to describe - surprise, a little embarrassment, and enormous gratitude.

‘A gift?’ he whispered and sat down opposite him, slowly as if he suffered from sudden dizziness. Charles retrieved the package from his bedside table and handed it over. Erik took it with care and, after surveying it a moment, unwrapped it. It took Charles a while to realise that the slowness of the process was because that Erik was cherishing the moment. Being given a gift had not happened to Erik for as long as he had reliable memories. Even the look in his face without knowing the content of the gift made Charles want to reach out in a combined effort to comfort him and assure him of his love. The wrapping-paper fell away, revealing a thin, large book of piano duets.

‘Thank you,’ he said. It seemed to Charles as if this was the first time he had heard those works and truly understood their meaning. It brought tears to his eyes.

Suddenly, Erik rose.

‘Wait,’ he said and left the room. Charles wanted to stop him to ask what he was doing, but there was no time, and only a minute later, he returned, grinning, carrying something between his hands. He presented it to Charles - something irregular, perhaps five inches high, wrapped in a handkerchief.

‘This seems like as good a time as any to give it to you,’ he explained and sat down, failing to hide the expectation in his eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment, so...’ Even if the scrutiny made him a little self-conscious, Charles smiled his thanks and unwrapped the handkerchief. He drew breath, amazed.

‘Erik...’ In his hand stood a metal figurine, androgynous and featureless, on tiptoe like a ballet-dancer, stretching up a hand towards the sky. Its extended fingers turned into the tail feathers of a bird in flight. When Charles turned it, he saw that on the bottom of the base was a semicircle and a cross at an angle, intertwined. It took him a moment to recognise the shapes as his own initials. Carefully, he placed the figurine on the table between them. Was that hairless, sexless character him - was it a depiction of his vain struggle to reach much-desired, unattainable peace? Or did it represent the striving of each and every one of us to find fulfillment, even if we would truly never find it?

‘You made this?’ he asked quietly. Erik nodded minutely. ‘I should put you in charge of art. This is better than anything we saw at the Met.’ Now, the sculptor laughed.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’s... absolutely beautiful,’ Charles said and traced the smooth metal with a finger. ‘I’ll put it on my desk. It’ll spur me on.’ They looked at each other, unable to voice what they felt. It seemed like they both contemplated whether they should kiss, but the moment was too perfect. ‘You’re full of surprises,’ Charles said finally when it had passed. ‘Anything else you can do that you haven’t told me about?’ Erik looked quite embarrassed.

‘I’m decent at drawing,’ he said. When Charles raised an inquisitive eyebrow, he shifted and said: ‘I have some sketches in my room. I’ll show you later.’

‘What are they of?’ Charles asked, entertained by how uncomfortable his admiration made him.

‘I mostly draw people - faces,’ he explained. ‘I started by drawing doctors and guards out of memory, to make it easier to find them. I became rather good at it.’

‘Would you draw me?’ Erik reached out and took his hand.

‘I already have, a few times,’ he admitted. Charles laughed.

‘You’ll have to show me.’

‘If you like.’ Charles watched as he played with his hand, turning it palm-up in his grip and tracing the ridges of hardened skin, formed by the handles on the wheels. In turn, he thought of how Erik still took him by surprise with his talents. It would be so easy to dismiss him as rather sad and unhinged, but there was so much more. He had extraordinary powers, which were stronger than any Charles had ever witnessed. Over this past term, he had proved himself a competent teacher. He was quite brilliant, and had a flair for languages. Their association had confirmed what he had always known, that his brusqueness hid a sensitive soul. A skill in art did not seem out of place in the least.

‘Tell me about those Christmases,’ Erik said, his voice tender. Charles chuckled.

‘There’s not really much to tell,’ he admitted. ‘I’d spend the week before looking through the library, and then I’d sneak up and read. They would fetch me for Christmas dinner, but other than that, they let me be.’ He stopped to recall it, a little surprised that he had ever been so tiny. ‘I usually ran out of my own books by dinner. One Christmas - I must have been eleven - I read _Madame Bovary_ , for want of anything else. I didn’t really understand it.’ Erik laughed.

‘But why did you do it?’ he asked, sobering up. There once again was their different ways of approaching their families - Erik did not seem to be able to grasp the needs of the young Charles.

‘I didn’t like this place much first,’ he explained with a shrug, still watching Erik’s fingers play over his hand. ‘I was lonely. There was only Cain, my stepbrother, and he took every opportunity to knock me about. My stepfather was civil at most to me, but unpleasant to my mother. And she... well. Reading was a good substitute.’ Momentarily, Erik’s ministrations stopped and he pressed his hand.

‘But it changed with Raven?’ Charles nodded.

‘Yes - she wouldn’t let me read through something so exciting as Christmas,’ he said and smiled at the memory. ‘She called me a bore - she didn’t really see the point in books. She’d never listen to what I said, of course - in hindsight, probably a good idea, some of the time. But at the time, it could drive me insane. She was... rather strong-willed, my sister.’ Erik smiled.

‘Ruthie was never like that.’

Time seemed to slow down. Charles looked up at him, and Erik stared back in horror. The pleasant atmosphere had shattered.

‘Ruthie?’ Charles whispered. For one long, excruciating moment, they stayed as they were, stunned by the realisation. Then Erik let Charles’ hand fall and he bolted from his chair. ‘Erik!’ he called after him, but he was already out of the door, and his footsteps thundered down the corridor. Silence settled. Charles could hear his blood cascade through his veins, driven on by a stepped-up heart-beat. In the short moment between when Erik mentioned the name and he ran off, Charles had seen what passed through his mind.

Suddenly, violently, new memories had presented themselves. Ruth, his big sister, the girl with the limber feet. She wanted to learn the Charleston, and Max was the only person she told. She once snuck out on a Friday evening and went to the cinema, which had made her mother furious. She was proud of her red hair, and when she was sent to wake up her little brother, she would form a brush with it and tickle his face until he woke up and sneezed. Uncle Erich made her and Max coffee with heated rum in on cold days, before they were moved from Düsseldorf. Without knowing it was her, he had told Charles about it, and he had thought of her when he and Charles had watched _The Parc Monceau_ at the Met. That he did not remember her was the reason why there had been no name in his mind.

Charles covered his face with a hand, not knowing what to do. Even if he, as a doctor, would call it repression, Erik branded it forgetting. When they stared at each other, he had heard him think, I forgot Ruthie. I forgot my own sister!

***

As a Christmas treat, Ororo had promised snow, but her control over temperature had flagged, and what had started as sleet became cold rain. Charles stayed up, listening to the sound of the rain against the window and following Erik’s progress around the grounds. Sometimes he ran, other times walked. Occasionally he stopped and crouched, trying to quench the agony inside by making himself as small as possible. Charles waited patiently, knowing that he needed his solitude now, and would return in time.

It was past three in the morning when he did. When he felt him approaching, he went downstairs and settled in the hall, ignoring how tiredness made him feel weak. The sound of the rain grew to a roar when the doors opened. The squelch of wet shoes was heard. Charles could hardly make him out through the darkness, but he reached a hand out towards him.

‘Erik?’ The shape approached, and the looming shadow slowly turned into a man. When he stopped in front of him, his knees buckled, and slumped in front of him. Charles reached out and pressed him close. His clothes grew damp against Erik’s, and the skin against his cheek was cold. Desperately, Erik hugged him back, too exhausted even to cry. For a long time, all that could be heard was his trembling breath and his chattering teeth.

Finally, Charles made him loosen his grip and helped him to his feet as best he could.

‘Come on, let’s get you sorted,’ he said, pressed his hand and then placed it on his own shoulder. He wished that he could keep hold of it, even grab his elbow to steady him, but of course that would not work. Illuminated by the harsh light in the lift, Charles got his first uncompromised look at him. He looked soaked to the bone, having left the house in his shirtsleeves. His hair hung into his face, which was as pale as a dead man’s, and the skin around his eyes was puffed and raw with crying.

Charles had spent the evening preparing for his return. He retreated into his role as doctor and educator, and he spoke to Erik as one would to a sad child. Undoing the knot in his tie and the buckle of his belt, he coaxed him out of his clothes and dried him, before making him put on a set of pyjamas and Charles’ nightgown to keep him warm. After pouring him some mulled wine, which he had kept in a thermos flask, he sat him down, holding his hand between both his. Erik did not object to his attention, but stared into thin air, not meeting his gaze. Charles knew that it was only to be expected, but it worried the part of him which was simply Charles. The pallor caused by the cold and the way his hair hung limply into his forehead made Erik look ill, and his silence was unsettling.

‘Erik, my friend...’ Erik shook his head and tried to pull his hand away. Charles held it harder, and then let go. ‘Drink the wine,’ he told him quietly. ‘I don’t want you to fall ill.’ Reluctantly, Erik sipped the drink. It was obvious that he was only doing it for Charles’ sake, and even that was simply because by now he was too tired to go on punishing himself. Charles watched him drink it, and saw how a little of his colour returned with the heat. When he put the cup aside, Charles reached out again to touch him arm. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He shook his head again. ‘Please, Erik, just say something.’ He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes.

‘I can remember her in Düsseldorf,’ he said slowly, as if reciting something, ‘and then in the ghetto, but when we got onto the train, she wasn’t there.’ For a brief moment, Charles felt hope. She may still be alive - she might have stayed with her uncle. Of course they would not have found her brother, because they would have asked for Max Eisenhardt, and no one with that name had even reached Auschwitz and was therefore not on the list of survivors. They would have thought that the rest of their family was dead, and would have built a new life. Perhaps they could find her - reunite them...

But he stopped himself, knowing that he was getting carried away. Why would a teenage girl stay with a man who was planning to join the resistance? Her parents would never have allowed it, especially considering that they probably did not know what awaited them at the end of the train journey. Even if she had survived, would she not have asked for anyone by the name Lehnsherr too, and seeing a boy of the right age called Erik, surmised that it was her brother under another name? Most importantly, the mind did not arbitrarily repress memories of this magnitude without good reason. Something had happened which had made it necessary to take such action, and whatever it was, Erik’s mind was still refusing to remember that part.

‘Erik, the mind’s first incentive is survival, and it will go to any lengths...’ Erik cut him off with a gesture.

‘Don’t, Charles,’ he asked him. ‘I forgot my sister. I must have known, somehow, but I never thought of her. I forgot her - that is the long and short of it.’

‘There is a reason. I’m sure of it...’

‘It is still not forgivable.’ Charles’ hand, which had simply rested on his arm, now closed around it and squeezed.

‘You need to sleep,’ he told him. Erik nodded wordlessly and let himself be helped into bed. Charles moved over and sat beside him, stroking his hair.

‘Charles?’ he whispered, his voice broken.

‘I’m here,’ he assured him and raised his free hand to his temple. ‘Go to sleep, Erik. Sleep until I wake you.’ His breath slowed and his mind blurred. Taking care not to move too quickly, Charles pushed himself down so that he had enough space to lie in. Before lying down to sleep, still in his day-clothes, he pressed a dry kiss against Erik’s forehead, hoping it would bring him some comfort.

***

In the moment between sleeping and waking, Charles could not remember why he had slept in his clothes on the covers, while Erik was under them and wearing Charles’ dressing-gown. Then he remembered the events of last night. As an afterthought, he realised that today was Boxing Day. It seemed odd - Christmas had felt completely overshadowed by the return of Erik’s memories. Erik lay with his back turned against him. His sleep seemed not to go deep - part of his mind was still awake, albeit dulled and confused. Charles saw not that it was little different to suggest to him to sleep than to sedate him. He touched his temple and concentrated.

Erik stirred slowly and rolled onto his back. Charles watched how he woke, and gradually, how the realisation of what he had lost dawned. It brought on a startling change in his face, which shifted from fragile calm to ill-hid agony. He bit his fist to muffle a sob. Charles reached out and pressed his arm. He had not expected it, but Erik edged closer and propped his head against his chest. As if to hold him there, Charles pushed his fingers into his hair and hugged him. Even when he did not read his mind, he could sense new memories rising, all small, inconsequential reminiscences, but to him they were as painful as they were welcome.

She had carried him piggy-back and had raced around the park with him on her back. Once (she had been twelve and he had been six), she had tripped and, while Max had simply tumbled onto the grass unharmed, she had scratched her knees and shins. Another time (when she had been fourteen and he had been eight) he had bored her with his talk about the Olympics until she stamped her feet and said that she _just didn’t care!_ When she was fifteen, she started working in a flower-shop, where they always called her Greta, oblivious of her family. _They think I’m German,_ she told her father, who had snapped back, _you_ are _German, Ruthie!_ But not enough, Max had thought, knowing she thought the same. Charles tried to imagine how it would be, realising that part of your past had been missing in that way. Reading his mind was only to feel his emotions second-hand, but that was bad enough. His despair still gnawed away on him. It was all he could bear - he withdrew and shielded his mind. It did not do anything about the hurt he felt seeing him lying there, face buried in his shirt and hand closed around the fabric. Only the occasional sob which shook his shoulders gave away the fact that he was crying. Charles stroked his hair, feeling oddly inadequate. In matters of the mind, that was not something he was used to.

After a long time, Erik set up slowly and shook off his hand. His movements were slow, and there was a slight tremble to them.

‘How are you feeling?’ Charles asked. Erik snorted and wrapped his arms around himself. The pose, along with the paleness and the trembling, made him look like he had flu. ‘You don’t look well.’ He looked away, tight-lipped. Realising that he was taking the wrong approach, considering that Erik did not want to be reminded of his weaknesses, he said: ‘What can I do to help?’ Erik shook his head.

‘It’s kind of you to offer, Charles, but right now...’

‘I understand,’ Charles said quickly. ‘Take all the time you need.’ It was understandable, he guessed - the last thing he wanted was a telepath inside his head, stirring up things even more. Then again, it also implied that he did not trust him completely. He reminded himself, rather bitterly, that he had not always made himself worthy of that trust.

Nevertheless, it surprised him that Erik climbed out of the bed at once and crossed to the door.

‘Erik...’ Charles said and started pulling himself into his wheelchair, even if he knew that his friend would be halfway down the corridor by the time he could follow. Erik glanced back at him, but there was no acknowledgement in his eyes. Turning away his gaze, he opened the door and left the room. A startled shout was heard from the corridor.

‘Whoa!’ Alex. ‘Erik, what the hell...? What were you doing there?’ Swearing under his breath, Charles put his feet on the footrests and unlocked the wheels. ‘Isn’t that the professor’s dressing-gown? Hey!’ Finally, he reached the door which was ajar, and pushed it open. Alex was standing close, throwing his hands up in annoyance, and Erik was stalking down the corridor without paying attention to him. The sound of the hinges made Alex look around. At the sight of Charles’ crumpled clothes and uncombed hair, his eyes narrowed. The idea had presented itself, but to Charles’ relief, he was still doubting it. _Have they...? No, they couldn’t... that’s just too unlikely. Or is it?_ ‘Professor, what’s going on?’ he asked, suspicion unmistakable.

‘Please, forgive Erik,’ Charles said. They had enough to worry about as it was - he would not let their affair be exposed as well. If the situation called for it, he would make him forget about it altogether, but it was not there yet. ‘He’s not well.’ He drew a hand through his tousled hair and added: ‘I’ve been sitting with him all night.’ Alex still looked doubtful.

‘Why has he stolen your dressing-gown? And what was he doing in your room anyway?’

‘His room is very small,’ Charles said quickly. ‘Cluttered with furniture. It doesn’t make moving around easy for me, so I saw no other way than to lend him my bed.’ He hoped desperately that Hank had not mentioned the time when he had found him in Erik’s room, because if he had, this would be one coincidence too many. For a moment, the scales tried to settle, and then Alex looked the way Erik had gone and said:

‘The bastard! He shouldn’t make you stay up all night, or just evict you out of your own bed like that.’

‘He’s not completely well,’ Charles repeated, relieved that he had accepted his explanation.

‘Doesn’t change a thing,’ Alex snorted.

‘I’m not frail, Alex,’ he said lightly. ‘I’m not likely to suffer badly from missing a night’s sleep. Besides, I am oath-bound to help the sick.’ Alex simply rolled his hands and instead:

‘I’ll put new sheets on the bed later.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Charles said. ‘Don’t mention this to any of the others, will you? Erik would probably not want word to spread that he’s not completely invincible.’ Alex snorted a laugh and left with a wave. Charles retreated and started to run himself a bath. He was surprised at the others’ willingness to believe whatever explanation he gave them (even if this one had not been quite as untrue as the one offered to Hank). Erik’s sudden recklessness had still come close to getting them discovered, and Alex’s disbelief in his own deduction was what probably what had saved them in reality. Charles simply hoped that Erik would not lose his sense of discretion. Then again, he had an awful feeling that there would be less opportunity to see him in the near future.

***

That day was much like those which followed. It was very different from the past weeks, when Erik had had things on his mind. However painful it had been, it had been an old pain, which he knew. This was new and raw. It drove him through the grounds on long wanderings, and into the solitude of his room, and away from Charles. The nights were worst, when Charles would wake, confused by not sensing him close. He would reach out and find his mind. Most often, he was awake, sorting through what he remembered and trying to reach what he did not know. He still showed up to meals, but he barely spoke. The anger his ponderings on God had made him feel had been easier to handle. Now, it was as if he had gone blank, shocked into submission by his imagined sin of repression. It did not go unnoticed. The children would watch him with worried eyes, looking almost as if they preferred being shouted at, and Alex and Sean came to the conclusion that it was all because Erik was a “nutcase”. Hank, to his credit, was more tactful, and raised the question a few days after Christmas when Charles had insisted on being allowed to help him cleaning the silver.

‘What’s wrong with Erik?’ he asked.

‘You must know I can’t tell you that,’ Charles answered, not looking at him. He hoped that implying that it was a case of doctor-patient confidentiality would both prevent him from ask and put some his curiosity to rest. Hank worked on the candlestick he was cleaning for a while, then asked:

‘Mental or somatic?’ Charles remained intent on the silver cutlery, until he realised that his resistance would not hold.

‘Mental.’

‘Are you treating him?’

‘No,’ he said, not wanting to admit that they had barely spoken for days. Even getting close to the thought made his chest ache. Then, realising it sounded odd, he added: ‘That is, not officially.’ Hank nodded, but his frown did not disappear. Finally he put down the candlestick and said:

‘I’m sorry to bring it up, professor, but... I think he’s a liability.’ Charles looked up sharply.

‘A liability?’ he repeated.

‘Should he really teach?’

‘He’s a brilliant teacher,’ Charles said pointedly.

‘Well, there’s the fact that, sometimes he seems a bit... unbalanced. Although I don’t doubt your judgement, if you think he’s alright,’ he added quickly. ‘It’s just... how do we know that he’s not... eum, teaching the children the wrong things?’ He was obviously embarrassed to bring it up, but that did not make Charles less annoyed at him.

‘You mean mutant supremacist propaganda? Beast, he’s not stupid - quite the opposite. He is as dedicated to the school as any of you, and whatever other opinions he has, he keeps to himself.’ That was not strictly true, but he was certainly not going to bring up that old squabble, particularly not now. ‘There is no reason to doubt his competence or his suitability. I will personally vouch for him.’ Hank dropped the issue there, much to Charles’ relief. Discussing Erik unsettled him, and he had to remind himself that his withdrawal had nothing to do with their relationship. It was just about Erik and his memories.

This continued until New Year’s Eve morning. Charles had retreated to his study to try to work on a new article, when there was a knock on the door. When he looked up, it was already opening, revealing Erik. His first response was shock - he had not come to find him for days. Then he realised that it must be a peace-offering, and before he remembered to restrain himself, he exclaimed:

‘Erik!’ He stepped in and closed the door behind him. His movements were measured, but the impression of illness was gone. ‘Can I help you?’ Charles asked. Erik crossed to the desk and flicked his fingers; the key turned in the lock.

‘Yes,’ he answered and sat down. ‘You could help.’

‘Just tell me how,’ Charles answered earnestly. There was something oddly formal about Erik sitting there in the visitor’s chair on the other side of the large desk. It felt almost unnatural. He made no attempt to speak for a long time. ‘It’s about Ruth,’ Charles said finally, not bothering to make it a question. He had worried that he might bolt at the mention of the name, but he only nodded.

‘I’ve been trying to gather it all together,’ he explained finally. ‘And why I suddenly remembered her now.’

‘Do you remember what you were thinking about just before the memories came back?’ Charles asked. ‘What was your train of thought?’ Erik frowned in concentration.

‘We were talking about your childhood... you were talking about you and Raven, and the time before she came... Perhaps it reminded me that I had not been alone as a child.’

‘What else?’ He seemed aware that there was something Charles wanted him to realise, but he dutifully pressed on.

‘Recently, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the past,’ he said. ‘I think it’s been on the edge of my mind since before term ended. Sometimes I’ve sensed it, but it’s never been quite in reach...’ He looked up at Charles, who intertwined his fingers and thought.

‘I think the reappearance of these memories is part of a bigger picture. In a sense, you’re... redefining yourself. Stabilising, one might say. You have finally found a role that you are at peace with.’ Erik shrugged noncommittally. ‘You know, I think that you never forgot her completely,’ Charles added. ‘If I had asked you, for instance, to count the number of people you lived with in Düsseldorf, she’d probably be included, but if I asked for names, the numbers may not have matched up. She was never gone - simply... blocked out.’

‘Bad enough,’ Erik said and looked away, mood darkening. ‘There is one piece still missing.’

‘Oh?’ He remained still for a moment, as if he were having second thoughts, and then met his eyes.

‘I still can’t remember what happened to her. It cuts short. Could you help me find out why I forgot her?’ Charles felt his smile die. He should have known.

‘In theory, yes,’ he said reservedly.

‘And in practice?’ he asked. Charles tried to assemble his thoughts and brought his finger-tips together.

‘The most likely scenario, I think,’ he explained, ‘is that something happened to your sister, something which you witnessed and found so awful that, in order to stay sane, you repressed it. With time, your mind has seen that the only way not to unlock those memories was to make your memories of Ruth... more distant. A little more inaccessible.’ When Erik did not answer, Charles continued: ‘To warrant such repression, it must have been something absolutely terrifying. Would you really want to know what that was?’ Erik looked at him as he considered it.

‘What could be worse than what I remember seeing?’ he asked finally. Charles shrugged helplessly.

‘I don’t know, Erik. I’m simply worried that it’d be... too much for you.’ They watched each other, and Charles felt a sudden urge to beg him to round the desk and kiss him.

‘You erased Moira’s memories of her time here, didn’t you?’ Erik asked, interrupting his thoughts.

‘Yes,’ Charles said slowly, not knowing where it would lead.

‘So if it proves “too much” for me, by which I assume you mean that it would drive me mad, you could simply make me forget it again?’ Charles stared at him, startled.

‘Well, yes, but...’ It was a grotesque request. ‘It wouldn’t just miraculously make it go away. You’d still have to recover...’

‘But I would,’ Erik filled in.

‘Erik, I couldn’t...’

‘Please.’ Once again they looked at each other. Then Erik spoke. ‘I want to know, Charles. It would be an affront to her memory not to find out.’ He sighed, defeated.

‘Very well. I’ll help you retrieve the memory, but if I judge that its strain on you is too great, I will take away that and all other memories of Ruth.’

‘Yes.’ Charles retrieved a sheet of note paper and a pen, and handed it to him.

‘Write yourself a note, explaining that you gave your consent to this. Don’t mention Ruth, or anything related to these memories, just explain the discussion we just had.’ Answering Erik’s questioning look, he explained: ‘Otherwise, you will not know that I have acted according to your wishes. I would not want to do something like this without your consent.’

‘I know,’ Erik said, sounding convinced.

‘Make sure that it’s completely obvious to you that it hasn’t been faked,’ Charles urged him. Erik nodded and started writing, his hand passing quickly over the page form right to left. Then he handed it to Charles - to him, it was only arbitrary signs, even if he knew that it was writing. He put it in an envelope with Erik’s name on and placed it in his desk drawer.

‘Do we do it now?’ Erik asked.  
‘I suppose there is no reason not to,‘ he answered and gestured towards the consultation couch. Erik rose and stepped towards it, but quickly, Charles wheeled himself around the desk and reached him halfway. He grabbed his arm and pulled him down, catching his lips between his. There was a comic gulp of surprise, and then he kissed back without restraint. Their foreheads remained together when they broke the kiss, and when they gasped for breath they breathed the same air.

‘I’ve missed you,’ Charles explained in a whisper.

‘I’m sorry,’ Erik answered and kissed him again. As he withdrew and sat down on the couch, Charles suppressed a relieved smile and instructed him to take off his shoes instead. As he did, the professor settled at the top of the couch. It was with some trepidation he lay down, unwilling to be exposed under the medical gaze.

‘I’m afraid it will probably hurt,’ Charles said regretfully and rolled his fingers to gather his concentration. ‘But I’ll be here.’

‘What will happen?’ Erik asked, staring into the ceiling.

‘I’ll enter your mind, we’ll find the memory, and... experience it.’

‘You too?’ he wondered, catching his eye. Charles nodded minutely.

‘It can’t be helped. This will mean accessing parts of your mind which it is not letting you into - I will have to force through with my telepathy.’ Erik nodded, showing that he was ready. ‘Try to relax,’ he told him and placed his hands to either side of Erik’s head. ‘I want you to imagine a corridor.’ He smiled a little, thinking it silly, but the scenario was already forming. Charles drew a deep breath, concentrated on his hands and plunged.

 _The corridor stretches before them, the end shrouded in darkness. They stand shoulder to shoulder, and Erik looks around, amazed._

 _‘The corridor,’ he echoes._

 _‘This is your subconscious, or part of it,’ Charles explains. ‘The corridor is simply a way to manifest it - it makes it easier to focus. Equally, we’re just projections of our minds. Behind every one of these doors is a repressed memory.’_

 _‘But so many...’_

 _‘Everyone represses things,’ he explains. ‘Most of them are probably very small. But we need to find the one you’re looking for.’ Erik looks down the corridor and then at Charles, hesitating._

 _‘Can I hold your hand, if we’re just projections?’ He nods, offering him his hand. He takes it, and they start walking. They pass uncountable doors, and from them Charles thinks he hears sounds. This is a fearsome place. There are no laws, no morals, only the will to stay alive and the power to enclose horrors no one can live with. All that is keeping the idea of the corridor intact is Charles’ telepathy, but Erik’s mind - not the conscious part, taking the form of the man beside him, but that feral part which surrounds them - is strong. As they penetrate further in, the corridor disappears, and all there is is darkness and the shapeless doors._

 _Finally Erik stops._

 _‘This one.’_

 _‘Open it.’_

 _He raises his hand and reaches for the door-handle, but hesitates. Then, pushing his fears aside, he grabs and turns it. The manifestation dissolves._

 _Snow. The checkered skirt. Uncle Erich’s arm. Nu loif, Max - loif! The yellow stitches in his coat. The hole in the ghetto wall. The kaddish. Du Judenhure! Two small chops and three potatoes. His mother crying._

 _Erik, concentrate. You’re letting it overwhelm you - you need to see it in sequence, not all at once. Pick a point - force it into order. Where would you begin?_

 _The snow. The hole in the ghetto wall._

 _Show me._

 _...He is on his hands and knees in the snow, crawling through the jagged hole. He has dodged the snipers - soon, he will be safe. In his pockets are two small chops and three potatoes, more food than he has seen for days. His coat feels funny, turned inside-out. It is the only way to do it - he cannot take off the stars every time he goes out, and there is no way to get another coat. Now, all that is visible are a few yellow stitches on his chest and on his shoulder-blade, and no one will notice it in the dark. He covers up the hole, and just as he is about to leave, he hears someone move. He stops - caution comes naturally now, after a year of smuggling food into the ghetto._

 _‘Max!’ It is Ruthie - now he sees her worn checkered skirt and her kerchief. Making sure that there is no one around, he runs to her._

 _‘ Wos tunstu?’ he asks. She should not be outside this late, not this late. ‘Hostu nit ken seikhl?’ _

_‘ Hostu denn nit ken koved?’ she retorts. ‘S’iz nit gerekht.’ _

_‘ Du farshteist nit. Ikh hob esnvarg, Ruthie - flaish un bulben...’ _

_‘ Du bist a gánef.’ But she embraces him - she is proud despite it all. ‘Dust loifn tsu der mame...’ _

_He puts a hand over her mouth, silencing her. There are footsteps, coming towards them - boots, guards. He is just about to push her towards the wall, so that they will not notice them, when she grabs him and pushes him away, hissing, ‘ schnel!’ He stumbles but lands on his feet and finds himself running, as he hears the voices behind him, the guard’s mock-politeness and his sister’s made up answers. _

_‘ Was machen Sie hier draussen, Fräulein?’ _

_‘ Ich werde nur nach Hause gehen - ich habe meiner Bobe besucht...’ _

_‘ Was ist denn eine Bobe?’ _

_‘ Meine Grossmutter.’ _

_‘ Na, Sie mussen sich nicht schämen, Fräulein. Was verstecken Sie?’ _

_‘ Nichts...’ It is cut off by a scream, and as though it were an echo, her cry reverberates inside him and he shouts too, turning around. He sees how they have grabbed her and pushed her against the wall. His father’s penknife is in his pocket - he could... _

_But just as he gets ready to rush back, something grabs him from behind. He knows by the sound of the breath and the familiar smell that it is Uncle Erich, holding him back._

 _‘ Oploz mir, feter Erich...’ _

_‘ Max, neyn,’ he told him gravely, holding him back, but he can still turn his head. When he looks Ruth’s way, he sees the guard reach out and grab her pockets, tearing at them. His pretense at politeness is gone, and now he pushes his hands into her pockets and up her sleeves, certain that she is hiding something. Max realises that they must know about the hole in the wall. They’re looking for smugglers, and suddenly the chops and the potatoes in his pockets feel heavy. _

_‘ Schau an - was hast du gestohlen?’ _

_‘ Ich habe nichts gestohlen! Bitte...’ _

_‘ Widersetzt dich nicht, du Judenhure!’ He grabs her face and slams her whole body into the wall. Max hears her scream and sees the blood coming out of her mouth. But where is his other hand? What is happening? _

_‘ Tsuzen nit, Max,’ his uncle tells him quietly, sounding choked, and pulls him closer, not to keep him back anymore but to hug him. But Max cannot look away. He sees the guard’s fingers around his sister’s throat, the blood on her face, her feet not quite touching the ground, the checkered skirt being lifted. At first she screams, then she gargles. Uncle Erich tries to cover Max’s eyes, to no avail. The guard makes a guttural sound and withdraws. Ruth’s body falls to the ground. His boot nestles close to her stomach, is drawn back and is then driven home. She curls up and covers her head with her arms at first, but then she goes limp. He kicks her once more and unslings his rifle, raising it butt down. His companion, who has stood behind him all this time, stops his hand. _

_‘ Sie ist nicht die Gnade wert.’ The guard shrugs and shoulders his rifle again. They continue on their beat. As they start leaving, Uncle Erich lets his grip of his nephew slacken. _

_‘ Nem dem doktor,’ he tells him and steps towards Ruthie. Max follows, but Erich stops, taking his shoulder. ‘Nu loif, Max - loif! Daine schvester...’ They stare at each other for a moment, then Max nods and turns. He runs close to the wall, where no one will see him. Before he turns the corner, he looks around and sees Uncle Erich carry Ruthie homewards. She is like a limp doll in his arms. _

_Back in the room the five of them share, his mother will not let him near the bed. The doctor is there, even if he is not a doctor anymore, because he has no instruments and no medicines, only his knowledge. Max has settled in the corner, but he can see her well from here, whiter than he has ever seen anyone. There are no sheets on the bed, and the dark blankets make her look paler. Uncle Erich sits beside him, but Max shakes off the hand he tries to place on his shoulder. He does not want to be comforted. He wants to go out and find that guard and kill him. The doctor whispers to his parents. It will be either the loss of blood or the internal injuries - not long now. His father asks how they will be able to bury her. The ground is frozen stiff, and the mass-grave is too expensive. The doctor shrugs. Max knows that there will be no funeral. It will only be a few hours, and they will arrange her for burial the best they can, tear their clothes and recite the Kaddish. Then in the morning they will leave her in the street, and the guards will take her away eventually to dispose of the body, without ceremony or blessings. After that, they will simply wait, because by now they all know that they are going to die, and there will not be one voice left in the world to sing the Kaddish for them._

 _Her checkered skirt hangs over the bedstead, the blood on it turning brown. His mother is weeping, and he dares not rise to hug her, even if he wants to do so even more than to kill the guard. The chops and potatoes are still in his pockets._

The sound of Erik gasping for breath pushed Charles back into his body. On the couch in front of him, Erik had covered his head with his arms and the panting broke, turning into sobs. It was done. He knew. Charles moved from the head of the couch to the side, reaching out to touch him. He had expected him to push him away, but instead, he moved closer. Encouraged, he stretched out and took him in his arms, his upper body curling into his lap.

‘There,’ he whispered. ‘Let it all out - it’s alright. Let it all out.’ Erik shook against him, worse than when he had come out of the rain days before. Finally words formed out of the sobs.

‘It was my fault.’

‘No, it wasn’t...’

‘It was my fault,’ he repeated. ‘All because of some chops...’ Charles hugged him closer, kissing his hair and stroking his back, and tried not to cry for him.

***

More than once during the following weeks, Charles regretted what he had done. Still he knew that the pain he had caused Erik by bringing back his memories would eventually bring him peace, and slowly, that peace grew closer. His nights, which were always spent with Charles, had been mostly sleepless, but now became calmer, and the nightmares, which haunted him whenever he managed to sleep, became less bad. Little by little, he grew less reclusive, and he started to accept the relived grief. Two weeks into the new year, when the students came back, he stood with the others on the steps, and when the children who had stayed over the vacation came rushing out to greet their friends, he grinned at their enthusiasm. When Rahne came leaping out of the house, transformed into a red wolf-cub, he simply sidestepped her and did not seem to reflect that he had almost made him trip like she had before Christmas.

The next day, Charles called him to his study and moved the letter Erik had written to himself from his desk to a locked cabinet.

‘Does that mean that I am officially in sound mental health?’ he asked as he watched him turn the key.

‘Yes, I think it does,’ Charles answered with a sigh of relief. He was glad to be rid of the letter - it had felt ominous. Now, it was difficult to believe that he had feared for his sanity, however hypothetically, only a fortnight earlier.

‘Did you ever worry for me?’ Erik wondered, as if earnestly wondering. Charles crossed to him.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I have never met anyone quite so strong.’

‘Why bother with the letter, then?’

‘I just wanted to be certain.’

‘Very well,’ Erik said and smiled. Charles smiled back. They looked at each other expectantly, and were just about to move closer, hoping to kiss, when the sound of excited children’s voiced penetrated the window. Charles laughed, and Erik chuckled.

‘It’s been too quiet without them,’ Erik admitted.

‘Let’s go see what they’re doing,’ Charles suggested and his friend rose, pushing him outside. They did not stay on the terrace, but went down onto the lawn. The air was crisp, but the children seemed not to care about the cold, but were intent on their game of football, with two pairs of gloves marking the goals. Some of them waved at their teachers when they saw them watching. They waved back.

‘I’m glad you’re so fond of them,’ Charles said.

‘Of course I’m fond of them,’ Erik answered, coming to stand beside him. ‘The future of mutantkind and all that.’ Charles smiled, knowing that he did not mean it, but that it went much deeper. He knew that the headmaster thought of them as his own, but so did Erik, in a way. For a moment, Charles tried to imagine them both as their parents. It was deliciously absurd. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Erik suggested.

‘Yes, why not?’ Charles answered. ‘Let’s just...’ _...watch the game a little longer._ But he was did not get to finish the sentence. There was something - something in his head, a deep-set pain... He grabbed his forehead.

‘Charles?’ Even though he was aware of Erik’s voice and felt his hand against his shoulder, it felt distant, his senses dulled by the pain. But it was not only pain - it was more complex than that. It was inside his head, but at the same time not - it seemed to rise and swirl and possess the whole sky, enveloping the world. White dots appeared in front of his eyes, and when he tried to blink them away, they only grew bigger. His blood was roaring in his ears, and all the time, the pain... ‘Charles, what’s wrong?’

‘My head,’ he said weakly. Erik’s hand tensed around his shoulder, the eyes close to his alarmed. The world went white.


	12. Chapter 12

_It burns and burns and burns - it soars through her mind and beyond it, to places she did not know know existed, and there_ they _are. Others, shining, sparking with this force, but different, far different, because this is worse. It is feral and unforgiving and omnipotent, and she screams, but no sound comes out, because all there is is the roar of the fire inside, and the whisper of the wings..._

***

The world turned from fire-red to blood-red. Light shone through Charles’ eyelids, illuminating the veins in the skin. His head throbbed, and the light would make it worse, but his eyes felt dry and unpleasant. He forced them open, despite pain and exhaustion.

His surroundings were alight with sunlight. A foot or so from his face was something grey. He blinked a few times, until the light grew easier to bear and things slid into focus. He was staring at a knee. On it was an elbow, and resting in the hand of that arm was a face, each eye closed. It took Charles a few moments to put the pieces together and form a coherent picture of it.

‘Erik?’ he said, his voice grating from disuse. Erik, slumbering at the bedside, jerked awake, and his eyes fell on Charles. He gave a strangled sob and grabbed his hand as he pressed their cheeks together.

‘Charles - thank God, you’re awake...’ Charles grunted in pain, and Erik drew back, his eyes brilliant with unwept tears.

‘Where am I?’ Charles croaked. He did not dare turn his head sideways, but he could see white walls and two screens, shielding them from the rest of the room. There was the smell of antiseptic in the air, and the sheets he lay between were clean but nondescript white.

‘The infirmary,’ Erik explained, verifying what he had assumed. As he turned to the bedside table and poured a glass of water, Charles noticed how harrowed he looked. The skin under his eyes had taken on a greyish tinge, and for a moment it looked like there was white in his hair. His scrutiny was interrupted by Erik sliding a hand under his neck and putting the glass to his lips. He drank it greedily. With the thirst gone, he felt a little better, but suddenly the worry in Erik’e eyes turned into alarm. Charles brought up his hand, and found his upper lip slippery with something thick. His fingers came away red with blood.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ he rasped. Erik hushed him and, putting a hand behind his neck, adjusted his pillow.

‘Hold this.’ He made him hold a cloth in place as helped him squeeze the bridge of his nose for him. Charles could do little else than surrender as they tried to stop the nosebleed, but he had noticed how Erik was ignoring his question, like a adult would a child’s, when the answer was too complicated or frightening. As Erik turned to the bedside table to find a new cloth, Charles saw the blood on his cuff.

‘Erik,’ he said, sounding a little less hoarse. Erik stopped and met his eye, tight-lipped. ‘Tell me what’s wrong with me.’ He sighed and averted his gaze.

‘You’ve been unconscious for three days, Charles.’

‘Three days?’ Charles repeated weakly. ‘Why? What happened...?’ Erik gave a small nod, and it took a moment for him to realise that he was telling him to read his mind. When he raised his hand to his head, it was half to rub his forehead and half to touch his temple in order to concentrate.

 _Charles’ eyes grow unfocused, and he grabs his head. Something is wrong._

 _‘Charles?’ Erik says and takes his shoulder; what is intended as a friendly gesture suddenly feels like he is propping him up. ‘Charles, what’s wrong?’ The blue eyes which look up at him seem misty, and he sways._

 _‘My head,’ he whispers and goes limp. His body slides out of the wheelchair, and Erik shouts and rushes forward to catch him. The children stop their game and stare. One or two cry out in alarm. He is not paying attention, but turns Charles around in his arms to see his face._

 _‘Charles? Charles, can you hear me?’ he says loudly and slaps at his cheek. He’s not...? No, he finds his pulse easily. Still, he does not react to his voice or his touch, and his face is unmoving._

 _‘What’s happened to him, Mister Lehnsherr?’ one of the children - he does not even bother which one, because suddenly they are just one great mass - asks._

 _‘Get Beast, at once - tell him to come to the infirmary,’ he says instead of answering and slips an arm under Charles’ legs. He is not easy to carry, but urgency strengthens him, and he sets off towards the mansion at half a run. He forces the doors to open by the metal of the handles. As he rushes up the stairs towards the infirmary, he feels something wet against his chest. When he looks down, he sees how blood gushes from Charles’ nose, sullying his face and both their clothes. He picks up pace while still trying to keep him steady. When he bursts into the infirmary, he calls for Hank at the top of his voice and puts Charles down on one of the beds. Don’t, Charles, please, don’t die, don’t leave me..._

Charles gagged and spat blood into his hand. The nosebleed had started anew, much stronger now. Erik grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

‘I shouldn’t have asked you to,’ he said and found a clean cloth. Charles wished he could tell him that it was alright, but he did not really dare to speak, afraid that it might provoke the blood to drip into his mouth again. When he was certain it would not happen again, he asked:

‘What has Hank said?’ His voice was very weak, and Erik leaned in a little to hear it. ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

‘We should tell him you’re woken up,’ he said, once again avoiding the question, and pressed a forceful kiss to his palm. It was only then Charles realised that the uncomfortable feeling in his hand was because of an IV drip attached to it. Erik put down his hand almost reverently, and turned away. ‘Hank! _Hank!_ He’s awake!’ The quick padding of bare feet and the sound of claws against the floor was heard, and Hank appeared, a lab-coat over his blue fur.

‘Professor!’ he exclaimed and had to stop to compose himself, but relief and surprise was pouring off him. Then he approached the bed. ‘Glad to have you back.’

‘He had another nosebleed,’ Erik explained as Hank took the cloth from Charles’ hand.

‘“Another”?’ Charles repeated.

‘You’ve been having them on and off the past three days, while you were comatose,’ Hank explained and shone a torch into his eyes. ‘How do you feel?’ he then asked and turned to the table with instruments.

‘Sore - my head is killing me,’ Charles said. ‘A little disoriented, perhaps.’ Hank’s mouth thinned. ‘If I’ve been unconscious for three days, I would expect it.’

‘Of course,’ Hank said quickly, retrieved a stethoscope and started unbuttoning his pyjama jacket. Just as the smooth side of a claw touched his skin, a memory forced itself into Charles’ mind. _Erik standing by the bed, looking up pleadingly, blood on his hands, pleasedosomething._ He pushed it away, but it took more effort than he was used to. He wanted to blame the acuteness of the telepathic contact on having woken only minutes earlier, but it was painful in a way he was not used to. Attempting to distract himself, he glanced at Erik, who looked back and suddenly: _leather straps and glass-shards and Schmidt’s grin._ Once again, he averted the memory, but it felt as if he was using up more of his strength than he should, because the exertion left him panting. Hank paused and looked at him oddly. ‘Professor? Is everything alright?’

Charles nodded and forced himself to concentrate on the cold air against his exposed skin and the bell of the stethoscope against his chest. Being under such scrutiny disturbed him. He longed for the relative dignity of his wheelchair and the layers of shirts and waistcoats and jumpers. That this was necessary, or that he was probably too weak to sit up properly, bore little weight. The silence grew uncomfortable, coloured by Erik’s impatience and Hank’s strained concentration. But Charles’ concentration was breaking, as alien thoughts pressed against his consciousness. He sensed how Hank flicked through his mental notes from his medical training, trying to make what he knew fit together and form a plausible diagnosis, and how Erik wished someone would tell him what was happening, how he wanted to protect Charles but knew he could not, because he had only ever worried about the threats from outside, not what might happen if he were taken ill...

‘Stop it! Stop thinking! Just shut up!’ Charles lashed out, pushing Hank away with one arm and throwing the other in Erik’s direction, as if he would be able to hurl him away. The only thing that happened was that the IV grew taut and the needle was ripped from his hand. The pain of it was only blotted out by the pain in his brain. Now he grabbed his head and pressed it as hard he could, as if trying to keep his skull from splitting. The pain was so deep-set that it forced its way into every corner of his physical brain and his abstract mind. When he closed his eyes, he thought he could see flames.

‘Erik, give me that compress!’ Distantly, Charles heard the flurry of action, and felt a huge hand grabbing his wrist to keep it steady.

‘Let go!’ He tried to shake him off, but Hank’s grip remained steady. ‘It makes it worse...’

‘Makes what worse?’ Hank asked.

‘Charles, what’s wrong?’ Erik said and put his hand on his shoulder. The contact made the low drum of panic grow, and he felt the terror that Erik had been fighting the past three days and still fought, caused by antiseptic and syringes and white coats. He tried to edge away, but he was trapped between them.

 _He surrenders and screams. Somewhere, far away, he hears Hank telling Erik to hold him down, and he feels himself be pinned down by an amalgam of panic and love and terrifying anger - no, a person - Erik - and yet he is only thoughts, feelings, memories..._

The stab of a needle brought him back.

‘You’re going to be alright, Charles,’ he heard Hank say. ‘Just relax.’ The request was not necessary, because the tranquillizer he administered was already working. Charles sunk into the feeling of artificial calm, oddly touched by the way Hank, who was usually so formal, called him by his first name. The psychic impressions were growing less invasive, and the sensation of others’ thoughts blurred. Finally, he dared to open his eyes. Hank was busy bandaging his hand where the needle had been ripped out. Erik was watching, looking uncharacteristically shaken.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charles said weakly.

‘What happened?’ Hank asked as he secured the bandage and started putting the IV in his arm instead. ‘Was it your telepathy?’

‘How did you know?’ His eyes darkened a little.

‘Let me finish examining you first,’ he said evasively. There was little he could do to object, but simply nodded. As Hank got to work again, Erik moved over to the window, and Charles watched how the soft sunlight fell on his face. He must have slept even worse than usual, he reflected as he saw how sallow he looked. The grim set of his jaw spoke of his worry and his frustration, and Charles longed to touch him in order to kiss that grimness away and knead the tenseness out of his muscles. He entertained this scenario for a long time, and either his thoughts or his scrutiny must have been obvious, because when Hank started drawing blood from the bend of his arm, Erik turned and looked, not at the invalid in a hospital bed, but at him. For a moment, as the sunlight made Erik’s dark hair shine almost red and cast his face in shadow, it seemed like the world was reduced only to them.

Then Hank drew out the needle in Charles’ arm and the spell was broken. As he went to place the vial of blood in his laboratory next-door, Erik approached the bed again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said and stretched the hand which was not bandaged towards him. There was a moment of hesitation, but then Erik took it and kissed it.

‘I shouldn’t have agitated you so.’ Charles shook his head slowly, so as to not disturb the headache.

‘You shouldn’t have to discipline your thoughts on my account,’ he answered. ‘You look exhausted, Erik.’

‘And you’re white as a sheet,’ Erik answered and then attempted to find something more lighthearted to say. ‘Besides, you have a beard.’ Charles raised his hand to his chin.

‘So I have.’

‘It’s very red,’ Erik observed and, despite the worry in his face, grinned.

‘More ginger, I’d expect,’ Charles answered, scratching his chin. The headache must have distracted him from it before, because now when it had been pointed out, the sensation was incredibly intrusive. As he considered this, Erik slipped from his chair onto the side of the bed and started buttoning the pyjama jacket, which Hank had only pulled around him. Charles wondered if he would be able to do it himself, and if he really looked so weak that he could not do up his own buttons.

They heard how Hank entered the room again and, finishing the last button, Erik returned to his chair. As he smoothed the sheets of the bed, his fingers brushed his hand. Charles wanted to grab it and pull him close, because the way Hank’s shoulders sagged and he chewed his lip scared him. But Erik’s touch was gone, and little remained but asking:

‘Any conclusions?’

‘Well,’ Hank said diplomatically and sat down. ‘Not quite.’

‘You don’t know what’s happened to me?’ Charles said, trying his best not to let his own worry show.

‘There is one distinct thing that I think that might be a part of it,’ Hank said slowly, as if reluctant.

‘The paraplegia, you mean,’ Charles supplied. Erik seemed to lose yet more of his colour. But the Beast shook his head.

‘No, not this time. I was thinking about the telepathy.’ His patient stared at him in surprise - this was not what he had expected. ‘Look at this. It was taken two days ago.’ Hank retrieved a rolled-up paper and handed it to Charles, who unrolled it with unsteady hands and looked at the EEG readout it bore.

‘This can’t be right,’ he murmured to himself.

‘It is,’ Hank sighed. Erik leaned in to look at the jagged lines left by the violent swinging of the read-out needles. It was obvious that it meant very little to him.

‘This looks like the readouts from Cerebro,’ Charles explained. A furrow deepened in Erik’s brow. Hank added:

‘The last few days, the professor’s telepathy has been strained to its limits. His brain is going haywire. But he’s been unconscious - he hasn’t had any control over it.’ Charles bit his lip.

‘So how has it happened?’ He looked at the read-outs, trying to understand that it was his own brain making these patterns. It was an alarming thought. ‘Perhaps it’s not telepathic - perhaps it’s something else. Have I had seizures?’ he asked Hank, who shook his head in reply.

‘Not at all. There’s been someone with you at all times - we would have known.’ Then he shifted uncomfortably and then decided to speak. ‘I think we should consider your brain structure as a possible cause for this.’

‘What do you mean?’ Charles asked and sank back against his pillows.

‘We’ve established before that your brain has an extremely complex structure,’ Hank pointed out. ‘What’s not to say that something... went wrong? After all, we’re at the early stage of evolution...’

‘You mean that I may not be a viable specimen.’

‘N-n-no, that wasn’t what I meant at all! It’s just that...’ Hank blubbered.

‘It was what you meant,’ he said calmly.

‘You can’t be serious?’ Erik asked and stared at them both. That mutation might have made Charles ill obviously disturbed him as much as that an injury he had caused might be the reason would.

‘He may be right,’ Charles said and touched his hand to assure him. ‘The pain it caused to read both your thoughts just a few minutes ago may support it. Imagine it as... pulling a muscle.’

‘But this is your brain we’re talking about, not a muscle,’ Erik objected.

‘Which would make it worse, yes.’

‘But you don’t have any symptoms which point to it being a stroke. It might be something else, though,’ Hank continued. As if the pain was getting impatient, it stabbed through Charles’ head, and he closed his eyes to escape the light. It did not make it much better. But he would not let himself consider the implications of all this yet, and pressed on.

‘The odd one out seems to be the nosebleeds.’

‘You don’t tend to get nosebleeds, do you?’

‘No, not at all,’ There had been once in Oxford when he had chatted to a girl who had turned out to be the rugby captain’s fiancée, but that nosebleed had had an obvious cause in the form of said rugby captain’s fist.

‘What about headaches?’ Hank continued. ‘You get those.’

‘Occasional tension headaches, yes, but this is different,’ Charles answered and hazarded opening his eyes. ‘Usually the pain is here-’ he traced a line on his forehead, from temple to temple, ‘-and quite shallow. Nothing out of the ordinary. But this... this is deep, and it is much worse.’ He had to pause and take a deep breath to keep the pain under control before continuing. ‘When I was about ten, I used to have quite bad headaches. My stepfather was always sending me to doctors about it - he said I was “delicate”. But they stopped when my powers started manifesting.’

‘So there might be a connection to your telepathy,’ Hank said, sounding eager at finding verification for his theory.

‘It was nothing like this,’ he said, and a groan escaped him unbidden.

‘You should rest, professor,’ he told him and rose. ‘Come on, Erik, we’ve kept him long enough.’ Erik did not move.

‘I’d appreciate his company, Hank,’ Charles said. His voice seemed weaker than it had been before. Hank sighed.

‘Alright then. Give me a shout if there’s anything.’ Charles heard him move off, and Erik moved his chair closer. A hand, the feel of the cracked skin unmistakable, stroked his cheek.

‘Erik, the children... They saw me...’

‘They’ve been told that you’re indisposed, nothing else,’ he assured him. ‘As far as they know, it was just a faint.’ Charles nodded, grateful at their sensitivity. ‘They keep asking for you.’

‘As soon as I get better...’ The sentence trailed off; he felt suddenly how tired he was. ‘I think I need to sleep,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry not to be more fun.’

‘You’re ill - you have no obligations,’ Erik assured him. Charles forced his eyes open to look at him. Was he making up for the time he had not spent at his sickbed two years ago? All his dedication, all his love and all his pain seemed written on his soul, laid bare behind those eyes.

‘Sleep,’ he told him and kissed his face. Charles cherished the brief closeness, but then the pain was back, and sinking into the mattress and closing his eyes was too much of a temptation.

***

When Charles’ mind rose and broke the surface of his sleep, the first thing he noticed was the empty chair at the bedside. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he pushed himself up on his elbows to look around.

‘Erik?’

‘He’s got a lesson.’ The voice drew his gaze to the opening in the screens, where Hank stood, his large hands awkwardly pushed into the pockets of his white coat.

‘Of course,’ Charles said, feeling silly. Expecting Erik to be there was presumptuous, he supposed. Hank approached hesitantly.

‘Lessons have been the only thing that has made him leave here,’ he explained. ‘He didn’t even go to his room to sleep, only to wash and change. Then he’d be back.’

‘He was here for three days? Sitting here?’ Charles said, astonished. He had known that Erik’s loyalty to him went deep, but _this_... Hank nodded, confirming what he had said.

‘I’ve had to bring him food to make him eat - he’s refused to leave.’ Charles smiled, flattered by Erik’s dedication, even if he wished that he would take better care of him. His thoughts were interrupted by Hank speaking.

‘I’d like to take another EEG - to see if there’s any change.’

‘Of course,’ Charles said, composing himself. For some time, the noise of Hank moving machines around made it impossible to talk, but when he had shifted the electroencephalograph to the bedside and was fiddling with the electrodes, he asked:

‘How’s your hand?’

‘Not as painful as my head,’ he answered.

‘That was quite the scare,’ Hank said, and then pointed to a splatter of dried blood on Charles’ sleeve. ‘We’ll have to get you a new jacket.’ Not giving him time to answer, he started arranging the electrodes, and Charles could do little else but to lie still and let him. At least Hank had not shaved his head when he had been unconscious, and even if he pointed out how much easier if would be, he accepted Charles’ answer that he was going bald at a far too quick rate anyway, and attached the electrodes to a cap instead of directly to his scalp.

The next half-hour, all he could hear was the fervent scratching of the needle against the paper and Hank’s mutterings. Finally, he stood and released him from the cap of electrodes.

‘It’s not as violent as it was a day or two ago, but it’s still far from your normal readout,’ he told him. ‘On occasion there are peaks, which are quite alarming.’ Charles had expected him to withdraw, or at least get him a clean pyjama jacket, but instead, he sat down, hands clasped and elbows on knees. ‘Do you feel strong enough to chat for a bit?’ he said, and a concerned crease appeared between his eyes.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Charles said. There was something urgent about Hank’s appearance which made him think that he did not want to chat. The impression was only strengthened by the way he gathered his thoughts and then said:

‘Do you remember the conversation we had just after Christmas?’

‘What was it about?’ Charles asked, feeling too unfocused to remember.

‘It was about... Erik.’

‘Oh.’ He remembered that conversation very well. ‘You thought he was a liability.’

‘Yes.’ The short word had a kind of finality to it, and when Charles looked at him, he noticed how he averted his eyes. He felt his heart sink.

‘Did something happen when I was unconscious, Hank?’ His lack of response was reply enough. For a brief moment, Charles panicked. He had thought that they had ridden out the crisis, but perhaps the combined turmoil of Charles’ sudden illness and the memories of Ruth had unbalanced him. ‘What happened? When? Were the children involved?’

‘No,’ Hank admitted, staring at his feet, as if it all embarrassed him. ‘Just me.’

‘Let me see.’ Now he looked up, jaw tense.

‘You shouldn’t - if all this is connected to your telepathy...’ he objected, but Charles waved it away.

‘It’s no great effort, Hank - besides, I feel better.’ Sighing to show his disapproval, Hank nevertheless nodded, and Charles’ mind reach out and found the right memory.

 _It is dark outside, and the light inside the infirmary is blinding after the gloomy corridors. When he rounds the screens hiding the professor, he sees Erik standing by the wall, his eyes intent on the unmoving figure on the bed. His concentration unsettles Hank - it is too intense, too passionate. He has to clear his throat to get his attention. Erik looks up, as if the interruption displeases him._

 _‘What’s that?’ he asks and waves at the dinner tray Hank is holding. ‘He’s unconscious.’_

 _‘Comatose by now,’ he corrects him. ‘It’s for you, not him.’ He holds it out to him; Erik hesitates before taking it. ‘You didn’t come down for dinner.’_

 _‘Did you expect me to?’ he mutters and puts the tray down, as if he has no intention of touching it._

 _‘You should eat it,’ Hank tells him. ‘It’s past nine - you must be hungry.’_

 _‘I don’t get hungry,’ Erik says. Before Hank has time to press on (because he should, being a doctor) he asks, gesturing at the professor: ‘What’s wrong with him?’_

 _‘I don’t know,’ Hank admits. He turns and stares at him, and even if he knows that he is twice as heavy and much stronger, Hank feels the threat intended._

 _‘You’re the doctor,’ he said, still deadly calm. ‘You should know.’ Hank tries to form the words to explain how many hypotheses he has already disproven, and how these things take time, but he can’t find his voice, so he simply shakes his head._

 _Erik’s movements are so quick he has no time to react, when he pounces and pushes him against the wall. Hank knows that with a swipe of his hand he could push him away, and that by simply grabbing his arm, he could break the bone in several places, but like an armed man face to face with a wild animal, he hesitates. He may be stronger and brighter, but Erik is older and more experienced, and infinitively more dangerous. As he pushes him into the wall, he grins insanely, as if this is something he has missed. Hank realises suddenly that the reason why he is not simply pushing him away is that he is scared - terrified. He knows how powerful this man is, and he has seen what he can do, both as a mutant and as a killer._

 _‘If something happens to him, I will skin you,’ he hisses, all mad eyes and white teeth._

 _‘But I...’ Hank tries, but he pushes at him again._

 _‘You’re his doctor - you should have paid attention to him!’ he shouts. The grin is gone - now there is only anger. ‘You should have been noticed it, and prevented it, and if he dies, I swear to God...’ He grabs at the fur on his throat, the threat obvious._

 _‘You'd never dare...’_

 _‘I don’t suggest you risk it,’ he answers, calm again, and Hank believes him. If the professor isn’t there to stop him... but the professor could not stop him before... He had killed Shaw in cold blood, and Hank had never understood why he had done it the way he had, why he had paraded the corpse like a trophy afterwards, why he had taken that damnable helmet... The meaning of it all had escapes him - but now he doubts whether there was true meaning, as he watches his maddened gaze._

 _‘You’re insane,’ he declared. ‘You should be in a straightjacket! How can you of all people blame_ me _? I’ve done nothing! I wasn’t the one to break his back!’ Hank feels an invisible power tug at his watch, and suddenly it forces his arm around, straining the joint at the elbow and not stopping until he feels that the bone is just about to break. He whimpers with the pain, certain that it will get worse..._

 _But the spell the watch was under is broken, and his arm is released. Erik lets go of his fur and steps back._

 _‘You can’t treat him if you have a broken arm,’ he says coldly and turns back to the bed._

Charles rose from the memory and leaned back against his pillows. His head felt worse again. Hank was on his feet, offering him a glass of water, which he took despite the tremble of his hands.

‘Erik isn’t insane, Hank,’ he said levelly when he handed the empty glass back.

‘He threatened to kill me,’ Hank protested.

‘He wouldn’t kill you,’ Charles assured him. ‘At least not how things are now.’

‘Don’t imply things like that,’ Beast said quickly. ‘It’s nothing to joke about. Besides, nothing changes the fact that he’s obviously very dangerous.’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ Charles sighed. It seemed that Hank needed a proper explanation after all. ‘What do you actually know of him? Do you know where he’s from, for example?’

‘What does it matter?’ Charles raised a hand to stop him.

‘Never underestimate the power of origins, Hank. Nothing is ever without its reasons.’ Hank sighed, like a schoolboy who had been corrected. Charles paused, not wanting to rush into this explanation. It needed time, especially considering that it was also the reason for Erik’s interest in Shaw. But there was no way of softening the blow. ‘During the war, Erik was a prisoner in Auschwitz.’ Hank stared - whatever he had expected, this was not it.

‘What, the...? The concentration camp?’ he stuttered.

‘Yes,’ Charles said. ‘I suppose you’re too young to have seen the newsreels.’

‘I’ve seen photos,’ Hank said, looking very pale. ‘He was there? Why?’

‘Because he was Jewish. It was all the reason they thought they needed.’ Hank looked away, stunned.

‘I suppose that does explain a few things,’ he said. ‘The scars, and that he doesn’t feel hunger, for example.’ Then he looked up. ‘Does this have anything to do with Shaw?’

‘Yes,’ Charles said simply, not offering any details. He would not give away all of Erik’s secrets. ‘His entire family was killed by the Nazis. He watched his mother be shot.’

‘You mean this is all survivor’s guilt?’ Now Hank sounded a little more sceptical.

‘He blames himself for the death of his family,’ Charles said. ‘He was fourteen, Hank - Scott’s age. Imagine what it would do to a child to see such horrors.’ Hank sighed.

‘Yes - of course,’ he conceded. ‘But, professor, I don’t see what that has to do with the fact that he attacked me.’

‘He is very protective of his own.’

‘But... Sorry, I still don’t understand. Besides, how can he even think of accusing anyone else for this? He injured you so badly, and now he blames me because I didn’t notice symptoms which weren’t even there minutes before you fell ill?’

‘He blames himself, even for this. He thinks he failed to protect me. But who would admit to blaming himself, when he knows it is illogical?’ Hank did not answer; obviously he was still trying to figure out the connection between Erik’s family and Charles. He looked for something to say, an explanation to offer him, but before he could, Hank looked up, a new kind of shock appearing.

‘Professor...’ _Their constant companionship, Erik cradling Charles’ body on the beach, Charles’ insistence that he would stay in the mansion, finding Charles in Erik’s room after searching the mansion for him, the love-bites, the way they had spoken after the Bedford attack without a thought of Raven, their touches and their glances, Erik by the bedside holding his hand as if it was all that kept Charles alive..._ Hank had found the string and tugged it, and before Charles’ eyes, the fabric of silent deception unravelled.

‘The fault is all mine,’ he said finally. Hank did not answer, but averted his eyes, as if wanting to hide the confusion and disappointment. He did not believe him, of course - he would rather blame Erik, whom he tolerated, and exonerate the professor, whom he quietly hero-worshipped. Charles was so elevated in his eyes that he could not connect him with something so base as homosexuality. Now, he was desperately trying to find a way around what was now obvious to him - that they must have _done_ things, because somehow, the love-bites must have made their way onto Charles’ skin. When he involuntarily imagined it, it was not a scene of love but an act of violence, Erik turned into some form of feral animal, attacking his hapless victim with bloodied teeth.

Charles wanted to explain to him the love which existed between them, the way they were brothers and beyond brothers, and how he refused (perhaps for the first time) to accept that their connection was sordid and wrong. But now Hank seemed to him a child, no more capable of understanding this than any of the students would. He still laboured under immature misconceptions of what love was or should be, still dreamt of a Beauty whose tears might drive the Beast out of him. How could Charles explain that love was not a power which could save one’s soul from itself, but a raft, a way to survive the sea of troubles which was life? However great the love between them was, it could only make the things that had happened to them bearable - it could not undo them. Love was not a cure, only a salve which eased the pain.

But Charles knew that Erik had been right of what he had said of the others’ loyalty to him. Hank would not tell anyone; he did not know how to put it into words. Perhaps he would pen a euphemistic sentence about it in Charles’ medical journal, along with worries of overwork and observations of occasional depression, but he would never dare to speak of it. Until he grew to accept or forget it, he would silently consider it as another piece of evidence of Erik’s insanity, and another unfortunate detail of the professor’s tragic life, ruined by his lunatic lover.

The door to the infirmary suddenly banged open, and a call:

‘Beast, is it true? Is he really awake?’ Hank scowled, getting to his feet as, without warning, Sean and Alex appeared. When they saw Charles awake and lucid, although propped against his pillows, twin grins split across their faces.

‘Professor!’ Sean exclaimed and bounded to the bed. He seemed first to consider thumping him on the shoulder but, thinking better of it, shook his hand eagerly. ‘Erik told us - we thought he was making it up!’ Alex shook his hand too and said cheerily:

‘We thought you were a goner.’

‘Do you really have so little confidence in me?’ Charles answered teasingly. ‘Very good to see you. How are the children?’

‘They’re alright,’ Alex said with a shrug.

‘Some of them’s been pretty worried for you,’ Sean added. ‘Betsy wouldn’t get out of bed the first day and blamed it all on a headache, and Jason’s been all moody - he made everyone think they had been served slugs for dinner a few days ago.’

‘And Scott is pretty upset too, even if he thinks it doesn’t show,’ Alex said.

‘Well, tell them all that I’m better,’ he said.

‘We will,’ Sean said and made a sloppy salute. ‘I don’t think they believed us when we said you just fainted.’

‘They’re observant little mites,’ Charles said fondly. ‘And I suppose that one or two of them are psychics make them excellent gossips.’ The door opened, and there was the sound of a pair of expensive shoes against the floorboards. Hank tensed visibly, but when Erik appeared at the screens, Charles felt his heart leap. Despite himself, he smiled at him, and Erik smiled back. Before he had time to approach the bed, however, Hank suddenly said:

‘The professor needs to rest - he’s not well. You shouldn’t keep him.’ As Sean and Alex said goodbye, he turned and said, voice going a little shrill with the effort of trying to show neither his pity nor his disgust: ‘Not you either, Erik. You’ve bothered the professor quite enough.’ And with those words he stormed out and opened the door loudly, to make sure that they all left. Charles caught Erik’s eye and gave a minute shrug. _Let him have it his way - we’ll talk later._ Erik smiled back slightly, and for a brief moment Charles imagined that he was going to blow him a kiss. Instead, he simply nodded and inclined his head to the side in a way that seemed to mean, _later_. Charles nodded back and as his visitors filed out, he sank deeper into his pillows, trying to find a corner of his mind which he could use without stirring the pain in his head.


	13. Chapter 13

The headache was back. Emma blinked a few times as she made her way through the uneven terrain of the forest floor, but it did little to clear her mind. She hoped that there would not be another nosebleed - it had already ruined her favourite dress, and just because they were sleeping rough, she was not going to lower her standards.

As if to spite her for her wish, the pain of rupturing membrane shot through her face. Her hand shot up to her nose as she bent forward to keep it away from her dress.

‘Emma?’ She looked over her shoulder, knowing that she must look like a wounded animal, hunching among the trees. It was Mystique, of course, wearing Magneto’s face, with Angel in tow, as so often nowadays. Usually she would have reflected that she should tell Mystique that her dalliance was too big a risk, but now she simply shot the girl a look, and their leader gave her an apologetic look to dismiss her. Then, alone, the cloaked figure approached. ‘We should find you a medic.’ Emma did not answer as she slowly moved to lean against a tree, still bending down. A hand grabbed her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, but failed. ‘We shouldn’t have kept going after you fainted.’ She shot her a look. The impenetrable void that the helmet created frustrated her more than ever.

‘I was out for less than five minutes,’ she said tartly.

‘And you’re still not well,’ Mystique said. ‘We need to know what’s happened to you.’

‘Oh, isn’t it obvious?’ Emma snapped and straightened to look her better in the eye. ‘I’m not ill - this is an attack.’ Mystique raised an eyebrow.

‘An attack? From whom?’

‘Only one person is strong enough to do it,’ she growled. ‘This means that dear Erik has betrayed us to your brother.’

***

Charles was woken by the morning light. Something soft lay against his hand; glancing down, he saw Erik, sitting on a chair but leaning into the bed, his head resting on the mattress so that his hair lay against Charles’ fingers. Smiling to himself, he moved them and caressed his head slowly, reluctant to wake him. Now in the nascent sunlight he saw that he was right - he could count three white hairs on Erik’s otherwise dark head. He tried to imagine Erik with white hair, and was certain that he would look very arresting. Perhaps he could persuade him to grow it a little longer then - it would suit him.

Woken by his touch, Erik stirred.

‘Good morning,’ Charles said as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes and straightened, cracking the stiffness out of his back.

‘Good morning.’

‘You know, Hank told me that you’d barely left the infirmary these past few days,’ Charles said. Erik cocked an eyebrow.

‘Can you blame me?’

‘Not eating or sleeping seems very stupid to me,’ he observed. Erik dipped his head, but smiled. Charles reached out to touch his face. ‘Don’t make yourself ill on my account. Hank has enough to do.’ He caught his hand and instead of answering his concerns, asked:

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better, I think,’ Charles said. ‘My head’s a little better.’ He thought about it and then said: ‘In fact, I think I’m hungry.’ Erik looked pleased.

‘A good sign,’ he said, and was about to rise when he hesitated. Charles raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and he explained: ‘We shouldn’t leave you alone.’ He could not help smiling.

‘I think you can leave me alone for ten minutes to make some toast.’ Erik hesitated, and Charles saw the scene he imagined, of him returning with breakfast to find his friend dead. But then he pushed it aside and rose.

‘Give a mental shout if... there’s anything,’ he said, lingering. Charles smiled and made a shooing motion. Rolling his eyes, Erik left.

Leaning back, Charles let his mind wander. However much he tried to pretend it did not move him, Hank’s inability to find a cause to his condition scared him. What if he really was disintegrating from inside because of his telepathy? It had only ever been an asset to him before, even if it could be unsettling at times, but now... Even if it turned out not to be connected to his mutation, it may still prove serious. Was this to be his life - to steadily grow worse while medical science could do nothing to stop it? He had thought that his convalescence after Cuba had only been a brief interruption in his life, even if it had changed him, but perhaps he would remain an invalid as well as a cripple.

Despite what he had said, it took less than ten minutes for Erik to return, and his relief at finding him unchanged was ill-hid. He moved the toast and tea he had brought to a bed-tray and put it in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ Charles said and took the tea between his hands. When Erik had sat down at the bedside again, he said: ‘I spoke to Hank yesterday.’

‘Did he have news?’ Erik asked, tensing. Charles shook his head.

‘No... but he knows. About us.’ He relaxed visibly, and offered a joyless smile.

‘The highest IQ ever recorded, and it takes him four months to figure it out.’

‘I’m also afraid he’s quite convinced you’re insane,’ Charles continued and sipped his tea. ‘I tried to explain you weren’t, of course, but I was unsuccessful.’

‘I think it’s magnanimous of you not to agree with him.’

‘Well, I don’t think I have to tell you that I think the death-threats were unnecessary.’ That made Erik laugh, despite Charles’ reproachful tone.

‘He has nothing to fear from me,’ he assured him. ‘As long as nothing happens to you.’ Then the entertained grin changed into something more tender, and he pressed his arm. ‘I’m so glad you’re awake again,’ he said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. ‘When you simply lay there, I thought...’ He could not seem to be able to continue.

‘It’s all well now, my friend,’ Charles said, put away the cup and touched his cheek. Erik pushed into his touch and closed his eyes, but the happiness Charles had expected was not there. Nothing was “well” yet - some things never would be. He stroked his cheek and told him: ‘Don’t think like that. Kiss me instead.’ Erik looked up at him joylessly.

‘With all the others around, I don’t get many chances.’

‘You have one now.’ That lured a small smile onto his face.

‘Fine,’ he purred. ‘I’ll take it, even if you have a beard and haven’t brushed your teeth for days.’ Charles was not given any time to reply before he leaned in and kissed him soundly. When he withdrew, he grinned. ‘You’re blushing.’ Charles smiled back.

‘I’m pleased, that’s all.’ He supposed that there was something odd about kissing in the infirmary; it felt like someone might walk in at any moment.

Now pain travelled through his head, and he leaned back to let it pass. Erik took his hand, his worry returning.

‘Just give me a minute,’ Charles murmured and rubbed his head. As he lay there, he thought back to when he had collapsed. His memories were blurry, but he remembered the sudden pain and the odd feeling of that it was only one part of something else. It had been a power, rushing through him, like a wave crashing against the rocks... And then the dreams. No, they had not been dreams - after all, he had been comatose, and one needed to sleep in order to dream - but there had been an awareness, not of what was around him, but of something else, the bird of fire, stretching into him and beyond him...

Suddenly the answer lay exposed to him. He tried to sit up, but without his arms to push him up, it turned into an odd jerking motion. Erik watched him in alarm.

‘Charles?’

‘I need to see those EEG readouts again,’ he said, breathless with the realisation. Erik stared at him, and Charles grabbed at his lapel. ‘Erik, I think I know what’s happened, but I need to see the readouts!’

‘I don’t know where Hank keeps them.’

‘Then go wake him!’

This time, Erik did not hesitate, but bolted from his chair and made for the door. Charles could hear his footsteps thundering down the corridor. Sighing, he sank back again, hand on his chest. His heart was beating faster than before because of his excitement. Before he had time to compose himself, he heard footsteps in the corridor, and the door opened. Hank appeared, barefoot and with his dressing-gown wrapped around himself. Erik followed, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled after sleeping on a chair and then rushing through the mansion.

‘What’s going on?’ Hank asked as he crossed to him and found the pulse on his wrist with two huge fingers. ‘You were supposed to rest, but now Erik turns up and rambles about the EEGs...’

‘I need to see them,’ Charles said urgently. ‘It’s important - I think I know...’

‘Charles, calm down,’ Hank admonished. ‘You shouldn’t agitate yourself.’

‘Just show him those readouts, Beast!’ Erik exclaimed. ‘If he thinks he knows what happened, you should listen.’ Hank growled at him, but retrieved the rolled-up papers. Charles took them out of his hands even before they had been offered to him, and Hank narrowly saved the plate of forgotten toast and the tea from falling off the bed. Expectant silence fell as Charles looked at the diagrams.

‘Yes,’ he breathed finally. ‘It fits.’ He looked up and his eyes fixed on Hank. ‘We were right - it is connected to the telepathy, but we were wrong about it being me,’ he explained breathlessly. ‘These readouts show my brain _receiving_ something. It’s bigger than anything we’ve ever seen, which is why it’s not immediately recognisable, and why they looks like my readouts when I’m connected to Cerebro. Just when I collapsed, I felt a presence in my head. All this is because I was struck by a massive wave of psychic energy. Also, remember what Alex said about the children yesterday - Betsy had had a headache, and Jason was out of sorts. They’re both psychic - they felt it too. It only affected me more because my telepathy is stronger.’

Hank took the readouts and looked at them.

‘You’re right,’ he said in surprise. ‘ _Damn._ ’

‘Could it be an attack?’ Erik asked, looking torn between relief and apprehension.

‘Emma Frost, you mean?’ Charles said. ‘No, she doesn’t have this kind of power.’

‘But who does?’ Hank said, still staring at the readouts. ‘Nothing could be this strong. You’re the strongest telepath in the world, professor, but _this_...’ Charles sighed.

‘Perhaps I’m not the strongest anymore,’ he said. ‘Something must have caused it. I see no other alternative than it being a mutant.’ Hank thought about it.

‘One whose power has developed...’

‘Or more likely, just manifested,’ Charles added.

‘You’re saying this is a child?’ Erik exclaimed.

‘You know how unbridled children’s powers can be in the beginning.’ Charles simply said.

‘Did you put people in a coma when your telepathy started manifesting?’ he answered back.

‘No,’ Charles admitted, ‘but my mutation just appeared one day. It wasn’t triggered or forced by anything.’ Erik’s jaw tightened noticeably, but he pressed on. ‘All our research point to that a traumatic event can trigger the manifestation of mutant powers. This is a frightened child, lashing out with an ability he cannot control.’

‘And he almost kills you,’ Erik pointed out.

‘That’s enough,’ Hank said suddenly and rolled up the readouts. ‘The professor needs to rest - this is far too much excitement for him.’ Erik gave him a withering look. ‘But at least we know how this happened,’ he conceded. ‘Which doesn’t change the fact that we don’t know how to deal with this.’

‘Fine,’ Erik grumbled. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ He touched Charles’ shoulder and left, fleeing Hank’s scoldings. Hank looked like he wanted to escape for a shower too, or just go back to bed, but he dutifully lingered.

‘Hank, how long until you plan discharge me?’ Charles asked.

‘You’re still ill,’ Hank said quickly. ‘I’m not having you...’

‘...Running around?’ he suggested. Hank’s face fell. Charles tried his best not to smile at the way he tried to compose himself.

‘Point taken,’ he said finally. ‘Tomorrow, if nothing happens. You’re obviously improving.’

‘Thank you,’ Charles said and bowed his head. ‘In the meantime, might I have a razor and a mirror?’ At that, Hank laughed. The rumbling, cheerful sound lightened the oppressive atmosphere.

‘I think we can do something about that,’ he assured him, and went off in search for shaving implements.

***

Despite his promise, Hank obviously found it hard to let Charles go the next morning.

‘If your head still hurts, I’m not sure this is a good idea.’

‘It’s much better,’ Charles answered. ‘I can deal with it.’

‘You don’t think it’s worrying that it still hurts at all despite the painkillers in your system?’ he pressed.

‘Much of it is probably psychosomatic - it’s not actually physically there,’ Charles retorted. ‘I can take pain, Hank. I’m used by now.’ Erik, who was standing by the window, refusing to leave despite Hank asking him, looked sharply at him. Neither paused to offer him an explanation. Instead Hank said:

‘What about the nosebleeds? You had one during the night...’

‘Stop fussing, Beast,’ Charles said, exasperated at the way he hovered by the bedside. ‘If the membranes are ruptured, they start bleeding easily. It’s not surprising. Besides, a nosebleed is not going to put me in a coma.’ Hank sighed.

‘Fine. You can go. But you’re not working!’ That was a condition Charles happily accepted. Hank removed the IV from his arm, and Erik moved the wheelchair to the bedside with a casual wave of the hand. When Hank took up the dressing-gown they had fetched, Erik stepped up and took it from him. A jealous look passed between them, and the Beast stepped aside, making no attempt to conceal his dislike. Erik’s movements as he helped Charles into his dressing-gown and steadied him as he transferred himself into the wheelchair were tender but possessive. Charles had to gesture for him to wait and let him thank Hank - Erik seemed so eager to leave that he forgot (consciously or not) about the young doctor. When Charles had expressed his thanks, Erik pushed him out of the infirmary. When they passed into the corridor, Charles heard him sigh with relief.

Alex and Sean had promised to keep the children out of the corridors, and they met no-one on their way to the master bedroom. As soon as the door closed behind them, Erik rounded the wheelchair and kissed him full on the mouth. Charles kissed back and caught his lower lip between his teeth for a moment.

‘Free at last,’ Erik whispered finally, keeping their faces together.

‘Yes, finally,’ Charles agreed. He reached up to stroke his hair and trace the outline of his jaw. ‘Erik... thank you.’ Erik chuckled. ‘I mean it. Thank you for being such a... protective, wonderful idiot. But don’t do it again.’

‘I don’t see how you’d stop me,’ Erik said, the smile suddenly extinguished. Charles leaned back to put some space between them. ‘What did you mean, when you said you were used to pain?’ he asked quietly. Charles looked away.

‘I’ve had my share of it, I suppose.’

‘You don’t have to spare me,’ Erik said sharply. ‘I want to know what I’ve caused.’ Charles sighed.

‘A broken back hurts,’ he said. ‘Quite a lot, at times, even years later. I’ve learned to push it aside.’ Erik turned his face away to hide the despair on it. ‘Let’s not talk about this,’ Charles begged him. ‘I want today to be happy. We both do.’ When he still did not look at him, he added: ‘You’re not undoing it by your guilt. It only makes it worse for me.’ Erik sighed and hung his head.

‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ he said and, forcing himself to let it go, leaned down and kissed his cheek. When he straightened up, his smile looked almost genuine. ‘What do you want to do, now when you’re not stuck in the infirmary?’ Charles did not have to think to answer.

‘A bath,’ he said at once. ‘Washcloths only go so far.’

‘Not an unanswerable request,’ he observed and entered the bathroom to start running it. Charles remained in the bedroom. After a while, there was the sound of the grating of taps again, and Erik appeared in the door. ‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as he rolled up his sleeves. Charles looked at him in silence for a moment, wondering how he could go about not making this an uncomfortable situation.

‘You know, Erik, I think I’ll be alright on my own,’ he said finally. Erik’s hands dropped and he stared at him in surprise.

‘Charles, you’ve been very ill - I don’t think...’

‘I can bathe myself, Erik,’ he said firmly. ‘But thank you.’

‘How are you going to get into the bath?’ Erik persisted.

‘There are handles - I’ve done it on my own a long time. I’ll be fine. You can leave.’ He kept his tone light, but he knew that if Erik objected again, he would snap at him. Erik must have sensed his mounting annoyance, because he sighed and headed for the door. At the door, he hesitated. ‘If there’s anything...’

‘Of course,’ Charles promised. He waited for him to leave before moving into the bathroom, relieved that he had persuaded him to leave. To give the bathwater time to cool a little, he shaved - losing the ginger beard yesterday had been a relief, but twenty-four hours was enough time for him to grow a bit of stubble. As he shaved, he contemplated all the signs of weakness that he still did not want to share with anyone, including Erik. However relaxed he was with being naked in bed with him, he did not want him to see him in the bath; it felt much more compromising. Neither had he ever really told Erik of the numerous jars of medication in the bathroom cupboard - anticoagulants, muscle-relaxants, painkillers -, but since he had been by his bedside for several days, he must have noticed Hank distributing them. It had taken him this long to admit to him that he was still in pain from the injury to his spine, but Charles thought that if Erik had not been there to overhear his discussion with Hank, he would never have told him. There was no reason for him to know - he did not want his pity, not when he had learned to live like this.

He was just about to get into the bath when he heard the door between the corridor and the bedroom opening, and familiar steps entering. Despite what he had been told, Erik was there, guarding him, ready to burst in to the bathroom at the first sign of trouble. _Disobedience in the name of love,_ Charles reflected. _Insulting me because he cares._ He did not know what to make of it, but he did not have the strength to feel angry. Instead, he turned his attention back to getting into the bathtub.

It frustrated him that there was some reason for Erik’s worry after all. The process was slower than usual, but he managed to lift himself onto the edge and then into the water without incident. Leaning forward, he grabbed his ankles and placed his feet sole-to-sole, comparing them for signs of thrombosis. There was none, but there was dirt between his toes; he had never really considered before how dirty the human body became simply on its own accord. He scrubbed it away, used by now to feeling as if he were touching someone else’s skin, not his own, and worked upwards over his legs, thinned by atrophy. Washing his hair was more depressing than usual; whole strands of hair came away from his scalp, and reasoning with himself that it was simply because he lost as much hair this one day as he usually did in five did not comfort him. As he leaned forward under the tap to rinse his hair, the pain in his head sparked again, making him close his eyes. When he opened them again, large drops of blood were mixing with the water under the tap.

With one hand to his nose, he turned the tap off with the other and pulled himself, inch by inch, to the other side of the tub. He lay with his head resting against the side for a long time, pinching his nose, until the bleeding stopped. When he had washed the blood off his hands, he decided to get up. Getting out of the tub was always more difficult, and the weakness after days of immobility made itself noticed. When he was balanced on the edge, something upset his balance. His fingers slipped off the handle on the wall, and for a moment, he was certain that he would fall. But his arm connected with the sink, and he grabbed in instinctively. The fall averted, he moved his other hand to the armrest of the wheelchair and pulled himself off the edge. He pulled the dressing-gown he had left in the chair around him and listened. There was no sound of Erik moving. Charles pulled the bathtub plug and as the water drained, he tried to catch his breath. The shock made him tremble, and he was glad when he heard Erik leaving the bedroom. He did not want him to see him upset over such a silly thing. He should have more control over his reactions than this - perhaps the psychic wave that hit him had damaged his shields. As he tried to compose himself, he wondered if Erik would have had time to rush in if he had fallen and called out. Perhaps he would have been too late, and would have found him naked and dead on the floor. It was a disturbing thought, and he pushed it aside and left the bathroom.

Charles was dressed and much calmer when there was a quick knock on the door and Erik entered. He found, despite what he had thought only minutes before, that he was glad to see him. He pulled him close and kissed him, offering no explanation to why he was pleased at his appearance. When he leaned back and Erik straightened, he asked:

‘Can I take the car? There is something I need to attend to.’

‘Of course,’ Charles said, surprised at the request. ‘What are you...?’ Erik smiled.

‘That would be telling.’

‘Keep your secrets, then,’ Charles answered teasingly, retrieved the keys from his desk where they were kept and handed them to him. ‘But you must tell me once you get back.’

‘Of course,’ Erik said with a grin, threw the keys into the air and let them circle around his outstretched arm.

‘Don’t be away too long,’ Charles told him, and Erik nodded a promise. He left, the keys still orbiting his hand.

***

Erik was not to be seen all morning. At lunch, Charles went to see the children, who call gasped and cheered when they saw him enter their dining room. Many of them got to their feet and Ororo even ran up to him and clambered up into his lap to hug him.

‘We thought you’d die,’ she whispered as she pressed into his shoulder.

‘Nonsense,’ Charles laughed and patted her white hair. ‘I’d never do something like that.’ Grateful for the kindly lie, she climbed down again. The students all watched him with such love in their eyes that he had to control himself not to show how deeply it moved him. It would probably alarm them if their headmaster started crying all of a sudden.

Some time after lunch, the pain in his head got worse and he moved over to his bed. It was there Erik found him when he returned, a little after three o’clock.

‘You took your time,’ Charles said and smiled. Erik dropped his hat on a table and went to his side.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked and cupped his cheek. Charles waved away his worry.

‘Yes, yes - just the old head. Did you get what you wanted?’ In answer, Erik retrieved the contents of his pockets; a thick file and a sheathed knife. ‘What have you been doing?’ Charles exclaimed and would have sat up if he had not pushed him down by the shoulder.

‘Researching,’ he answered. ‘This psychic wave that hit you - whatever caused it to manifest must have been big enough to be noticed.’

‘Well, possibly...’

‘So I obtained information of every recorded accident and crime which happened on the East Coast the hours around when you collapsed,’ he explained.

‘And the knife?’

‘Just a bit of leverage,’ he assured him and took his coat off. ‘I didn’t have to use it.’ Charles sighed, but could not help smiling. Erik did not need a knife to intimidate people, and yet, as he sat down on the bed, he seemed so congenial and safe. Charles noticed how he looked at his throat, where he had undone the upper buttons of his shirt. He sat up and touched his face, guiding it closer. The kiss seemed to hover between them, waiting for them to fulfill it. Their noses touched and their lips were a fraction of an inch from each other, when Erik placed a hand over his and tipped his head, so that their foreheads rested together, and their mouths were brought further apart.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re still not well...’ Charles pulled back to look at him, surprised at his hesitation.

‘Why?’

‘I just think we should...’ Erik tried to find the right word. ‘...wait.’

‘You mean that I’m too weak for a kiss?’ Charles said tersely. Erik looked away.

‘You were intending more than just a kiss.’

‘Yes,’ he said, unsettled at how Erik made it sound like a reproach.

‘Are you really that surprised that I worry for you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Two days ago, you were in a coma, and just because you _persuaded_ Hank to discharge you...’

‘I did no such thing,’ Charles snapped. ‘I would never use my powers against anyone like that.’

‘It doesn’t make a difference,’ Erik retorted. ‘Whatever hit you may have caused more damage than we know...’

‘Are you looking for reasons not to touch me?’

His eyes grew in surprise.

‘No!’ he cried, aghast. ‘How could you say such a thing?’

‘I just want to know,’ he said curtly.

‘When have I ever shown reluctance to touch you?’ he challenged him.

‘You never touch my legs,’ Charles pointed out.

‘What would be the point?’ Erik asked quickly and then, restraining himself, added: ‘You wouldn’t feel it.’

‘Is that the only reason?’ he wondered, sounding resigned. Erik sighed and said with equal resignation:

‘What would you have me say, Charles?’

‘Only the truth. What else do you think I wanted to hear?’ Unbidden, the pitch of his voice rose. It made him realise his own agitation. He was not quite certain how they had started fighting about this. The psychic wave must have disrupted his shields more than he thought, because these were thoughts he mostly pushed to the back of his mind, and had never considered to mention.

He sat up properly and swallowed to keep his voice under control.

‘Does it disgust you?’ Erik looked up in surprise.

‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course it does not, it...’ _Those thin useless legs - it’s my fault..._ ‘I... I dislike the reminder. That is all.’ They sat silent for a long time, looking different ways. ‘How have I ever deserved you, Charles?’ he sighed at last. ‘Hank’s right. I can’t be trusted.’

‘Yes, you can,’ Charles said. Forcing the imagined slight aside, he covered Erik’s hand with his own. ‘You have proved yourself more than once.’ Erik snorted.

‘You imagine that you’re unlovable because you’re paralysed, but I know that I could never atone, because I was made a monster.’

‘Don’t call yourself such a thing!’ Erik looked away.

‘But it is true.’

‘Not to me,’ Charles said - he would not let him says such things, and would not listen to them. Instead, he pulled him closer. Where there had been bitter arguing, there was now sudden, spontaneous reconciliation. ‘I love every part of you,’ he whispered.

‘Why do you doubt that I don’t love you in the same way?’ Erik asked fiercely and hugged him harder. ‘You’ve seen my mind - you know it better than I do at times.’

‘Let’s not talk,’ Charles whispered and kissed him instead. Reluctance gave way for reciprocation, and the tug of Erik’s body relaxed and became a response. Their lips pressed together, then opened little by little, until it was mouths and not lips meeting. The flare of passion Erik had tried to avert beset them, and despite his previous objections, he lowered Charles down and clambered on top of him. They lay mouth to mouth, face to face, chest to chest and moved in unison. Erik’s lips left his, and instead he kissed his jaw, while Charles drew his hands over his back. The sensations burned into him - the lips against his throat, the hair his hand grabbed, the skin under layers of clothes, the thoughts pressing painfully against his brain.

He managed to bite off the scream which was building. Erik scrambled up, pushing himself back onto his heels in alarm.

‘Charles?’ His guilt was tangible - he had tried to be careful, but his petty desires had got the better of him, and now he had hurt him... All this was so plain to Charles that it could have been his own thoughts. He thought for a moment, and managed to shield off his mind.

‘You were right,’ he said, voice strained. ‘We’ll have to... postpone.’ Erik climbed off him and settled on the side of the bed. Attempting to collect himself, he straightened his tie and arranged his hair. He was stalling for time. Charles reached out to take his hand.

‘I wish we didn’t have to,’ Erik said quietly and pressed it. Charles smiled at him, feeling more relief at Erik’s show of affection than he was prepared to admit. Before he left him to rest, they shared a chaste parting-kiss, and despite the headache, Charles smiled to himself long after he left.

***

Charles gave his first lesson the next morning. It became an amalgam of all the subjects he taught. They spoke about dystopian novels, how Hank’s computers worked, the evolution of invertebrates, the particulars of geometry, Oliver Cromwell and why some mutants were different from birth and others only manifested their powers at puberty. The children were obviously enjoying it immensely, and refused to leave when the assigned time ended. As a compromise, Susanna took Jason and Rahne with her to the kitchen to fetch tea, and they continued the lesson until lunch.

As Charles had expected, Hank, who had only grudgingly allowed him to teach, was not pleased that the lesson had been two and a half hours long.

‘The children were so eager, I couldn’t disappoint them,’ Charles said at lunch, when Hank left the children to their own devices to confront him.

‘You’re not well - you don’t need the added stress,’ Hank answered.

‘It was a long chat rather than a lesson,’ Charles retorted. ‘I had a lovely time, and was very glad to see the children again. Surely that should count too?’ The Beast scowled. ‘I am capable of taking care of myself, you know.’

‘Until we can deal with whatever’s causing this, won’t you at least _try_ not to exert yourself?’ Hank sighed.

‘What are you going to do about this wave thing anyway?’ Alex asked.

‘We’ll have to find it, I assume,’ Hank said.

‘How do you find something like that?’ Sean asked. ‘It could be anything.’

‘I’m working on it,’ Erik said, and explained about the reports he had got hold of, even if he did not explain how he had acquired them. When a pause came in the conversation, Charles spoke up.

‘There is another, more direct approach.’

‘What’s that?’ Sean asked, but Erik had already turned to look at him in alarm, and Hank had stepped forward.

‘No,’ Hank said forcefully. ‘No, not under any condition...’

‘You can’t be serious...’ Erik protested. Charles cut them both off with a gesture.

‘You spent all night trying to find a lead in those reports, Erik, and you’re no closer,’ he said. ‘What makes you think you’ll have any success at all?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Alex.

‘Cerebro,’ Hank said irritably. ‘But it’s not an option.’

‘Why not?’ Charles pressed.

‘Because it could kill you!’ he exclaimed, looking ready to start pulling his fur out. ‘It’s not gentle even when you’re well, and in your current state... No. Just no.’

An oppressive silence fell, and Charles was aware of the others watching him, surprised at how gladly he considered risking his health and sanity. He pushed his plate aside. The thought of eating suddenly made him nauseated.

‘Professor?’ said Hank, anger turning quickly into worry.

‘I’m fine, Hank,’ Charles forced himself to say, waving a hand at him. ‘Just give me a moment.’ Trying to quench the building headache, he shut his eyes tightly. It did very little to help, but only made the others’ thoughts close in on his mind.

 _Poor bastard - wouldn’t swap places. Hasn’t he been through enough yet?_

 _If he has a relapse, can we really keep him in the infirmary? No, we couldn’t take him to hospital - too many explanations required - we’d have to make do..._

 _Not again, Lord, keep him safe, not again._

Charles blinked. _Call yourself a telepath, Charley?_ he thought to himself. _Then act like one - it can’t be so hard to block them out..._ Closing his eyes again, he attempted to shield his mind. The strain should not be this great, and yet he struggled. His nose started bleeding. And...

...The next moment Charles was aware of, he was laid on flat on his back on the floor. The others were gathered around, looking down at him.

‘Professor, are you alright?’ He simply put a hand to his forehead and groaned. Hank edged closer.

‘Come on, you need to lie down properly. This floor isn’t doing you much good.’ Then with a swift motion, he swept him up in his arms and carried him to the wheelchair, which Charles assumed was the reverse of how he got onto the floor.

‘How long was I out?’ he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘Only a few seconds,’ Erik said, trying to sound reassuring, but failing. The shock of what had happened was clearly written on his face.

For a moment Charles wondered if this would make Hank take him back to the infirmary, but instead, he pushed him towards his study, which was closer, the others still in tow. Resigning himself to their attentions, he let Erik help him onto the couch and Hank find a blanket for him. Alex and Sean hovered nearby, watching them with frowns on their faces.

‘Right,’ Hank said and straightened up. ‘Now will you rest?’

‘Yes,’ Charles sighed, seeing little else to do. The idea of getting up was not particularly welcome anyway.

‘Good. I’ll come and check on you in a bit. All of you, come on.’ Sean and Alex moved towards the door. Erik lingered. ‘You too, Erik,’ Hank snapped. Erik snorted, caught Charles’ eyes for a moment and stalked off. ‘Shout if there’s anything you need,’ Hank said to the professor and left as well. Charles could hear him speaking to the others just outside the door.

‘No one must upset the professor,’ Hank said. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Goes for you too, Beast,’ Alex said flippantly.

‘Of course it does!’ he said quickly. ‘If someone sees that good-for-nothing Erik, tell him the same. He really should know better than to bother the professor.’ Charles heard him leave, and the congregation outside the door dispersed.

Charles surrendered to the throb in his head, until it started to recede slowly. The clock on the mantlepiece struck one - he must have been on the couch almost an hour now. Even if his head was better, he was still overly aware of others’ thoughts around him. He sensed Hank out on the terrace, and giving into curiosity, slipped into his mind to share his perceptions.

 _Footsteps compress the light snow behind him. He turns around to see Erik approaching, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold. He stops at his side and lights a cigarette._

 _‘Do you know how harmful that is?’ Hank asks. ‘There’s tar in those things, you know. It’ll give you cancer.’_

 _‘I survived the SS Medical Corps - I think I can survive tobacco,’ Erik answers dryly. Hank looks away - usually people just tell him he’s a bore. There is very little he can say to that, and finally he settles on saying:_

 _‘I know about you and the professor. About your... affair.’_

 _‘Do you honestly think Charles did not tell me that?’ Erik asks, sounding quite bored. ‘You surprise me, Hank. Why don’t you use that brain of yours?’ Hank turns to look at him and growls:_

 _‘Don’t you see the damage you are causing?’_

 _‘I didn’t come here to hear your opinions on something which doesn’t concern you - no more than I came here to discuss my smoking-habits,’ Erik says, boredom replaced with fierceness. ‘I know you don’t approve of me, but we_ need _to cooperate, and you know about what.’ Hank sighs._

 _‘Cerebro,’ he said. Erik nods. ‘Do you think he’s serious about doing it?’_

 _‘When Charles gets an idea, dissuading him is difficult.’_

 _‘How much luck have you had, with those reports?’_

 _‘None,’ Erik sighs. ‘He was right about that.’ They stand in silence for a while. ‘You said that Cerebro could kill him,’ he observes at last._

 _‘You’ve seen him use it,’ Hank says sharply. ‘It’s painful. The construction is still crude - if it wasn’t, we’d use it much more. What it’d do to him when he’s like this...’_

 _‘But you don’t know how much damage it’d cause?’ Hank looks at him in surprise._

 _‘I thought you cared about him, at least in some twisted way,’ he exclaims._

 _‘Do you know what damage it would cause?’ Erik repeats. Hank sighs._

 _‘No - no, I don’t know. But that’s not the point! It could drive him mad, it could fry his nervous system, it could kill him. Is it worth it?’ Erik seems to consider this._

 _‘And if this force - whatever it is - continues? Something that strong would not be likely to just disappear. Will it stop affecting him? Or will he get worse? Surely what happened now is not only because of the psychic wave - there is constant psychic pressure.’_

 _‘It could make things worse, yes.’ Hank says. ‘Much worse. So we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.’_

 _‘I’m afraid so.’ Erik stabs out his cigarette against the sole of his shoe and turns to leave. ‘Would it be possible for Charles to operate Cerebro on his own?’_

 _‘There’s a quite heavy steel door, but at least when he’s well, he can open it himself. He has all the codes to get into it - some of them only he knows.’ Erik nodded curtly._

 _‘Then perhaps it’s better that we let him have it his way, so that we can be there.’_

Charles withdrew, and could not help smiling to himself. After dinner, Hank admitted defeat and agreed on using Cerebro.


	14. Chapter 14

John Grey could not bear to leave the bedside. His wife could at least pace or cross to the window, but he would not let go of his daughter’s hand until Karen priced it out of his grip. There was a schedule for it - it only happened at meal-times and when the doctors came. They always said the same thing, which was nothing. There were no answers they could give, no comforting words to offer. All they could tell them, again and again, was that their daughter was most likely never going to wake up again.

***

Even if Hank had agreed on using Cerebro, he made quite clear that that he did not have to like it. He insisted that he would choose the day, to make sure that Charles was as well as possible. Charles’ patience was wearing thin when Hank, almost week after discharging him from the infirmary, finally complied. It was a Sunday, so no lessons had to be cancelled when the mismatched trio gathered.

‘I wish you could come up with an alternative,’ Hank said as he pushed Charles through the underground corridors. ‘This is a _bad_ idea.’

‘I thought what we did was to make bad ideas good ones,’ Charles answered lightly.

‘It’d be much easier if we didn’t have to do that conversion,’ he just said. ‘Besides, there’s been too many bad ideas recently.’

‘Like my employment?’ Erik asked, falling into stride with them. Charles did not have to see them to know that Hank was glaring at him.

‘I haven’t forgotten that you threatened to turn me into a rug,’ he said finally, sounding fractious like a disgruntled child.

‘You’d make an awful carpet, Hank - I’d prefer to keep you as a teacher,’ Charles said. Hank muttered something about it not being a joke, but it was easier to wave it away, before he started going on to complain about other things relating to Erik.

They reached the door to Cerebro, and Charles wheeled himself the remaining few feet. An uncanny silence fell as he turned the dial on the door. The lock clicked for every turn, and then the sound of the bolt drawing back was heard. Charles was aware of Erik drawing breath sharply. Evidently he could feel the movements of the metal mechanism. Charles backed away from the door and looked at him.

‘Will you do the honours?’ Erik grinned and made a large gesture with one hand. The heavy door flew open, revealing only darkness. Then one lamp after another flared into life, and the shape of the room was revealed. Erik’s eyes grew at the sight, but Charles realised that if he felt the lock turning in the door, he already felt the sphere of Cerebro. Inviting him to go first, Charles gestured towards the door. Reverently, he stepped inside. Hank was about to say something, but Charles shook his head minutely, not wanting to spoil the moment.

He watched as Erik looked around the spherical chamber and flexed his hands, as if he could feel the imprint of the metal in his palms. Standing there, he looked humbled - this was a sanctuary of sorts, a machine built for one mind alone, a physical manifestation of Charles’ power.

When they entered the chamber, Erik was still watching the inside of the sphere, stretching over their heads and under their feet.

‘I thought you said it was crude,’ he said finally.

‘It still needs work,’ Hank muttered.

‘It’s incredible,’ Erik said, half to himself, and turned around, as if to look at it, but his eyes were close. Charles watched him, captivated by the way he felt the metal, but also awed by the fact that however much the steel in the bridge they stood on or the alloy in the panels on the wall sang to Erik, the sensation of being connected to Cerebro was still more intense.

Erik stopped turning, and faced Charles instead. His gaze was more intense that it usually was when others were there. Behind them, he could hear Hank shifting uncomfortably.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Erik asked quietly.

‘No,’ Charles admitted. ‘But how else are we going to find this?’

‘It could kill you.’

‘What sent off the psychic wave could kill me too,’ he sighed. ‘We made a decision. We stick to it.’ Erik sighed and looked away. ‘Even we don’t do this, I would be under its influence every moment. If you knew how... _inhibited_ I feel by it...’ He broke off.

‘What do we do when we find the reason?’ Erik asked.

‘We rein it in - we restrain it,’ Charles answered. It did not seem to be the reply he had wanted, but all he did was to sigh and shake his head.

‘Please, be careful,’ he said and put his hand over his. Charles forced a smile.

‘Give me half a minute,’ he told him. ‘This is so strong, I’ll be able to find it quickly.’ Erik nodded again and leaned down a little, as if considering kissing him. Before he had time, Hank said:

‘Are you two done yet?’ Charles chuckled and pressed Erik’s hand with both his.

‘It’s going to alright,’ he assured him and then let go. Erik stepped back, breaking the illusion that they were alone. ‘Right, Hank. Let’s turn this beauty on.’

As Hank started up the computers, Charles approached the main controls, on top of which the helmet sat. The lights which indicated that the circuitry was warming up started changing from red to yellow. Carefully, he picked up the helmet and put it on his head.

‘So you won’t reconsider?’ Hank said from behind.

‘Give me thirty seconds - that’s all I need,’ Charles told him. The first light turned green, then the next. Erik drew close, standing on his side. Hank moved to stand on his other and took his wrist to find the pulse on it. The last light changed colour. With his free hand, Charles took the switch and...

 _Every mind, every place, every brain able to think and perceive of itself. He can see them, he is inside them, and them inside him, but they are blotted out. The force - the fire. It is everywhere - it is stronger than everything else. It will burn him - it will consume him - but he knows where it is. He sees her briefly. How can she hold such power...?_

***

Suddenly it was over, and the next thing he knew, someone was lifting him, whispering comforts in a language he did not know. The pain in his head was so strong he could not open his eyes, and he could taste blood. He was lowered onto a bed - his bed - and tender fingers pushed into his hair, a handkerchief mopping his brow.

‘Charles?’ There was blood on his face - the handkerchief moved and cleaned it away. He managed to groan, but not much else. At least he could still think, and he was still strong enough to push a thought into Erik’s mind.

 _How long did it take?_

‘Nine seconds,’ Erik said as he undid Charles’ tie. ‘I think we managed.’ The voice coming from somewhere above him sounded breathless and a little strained, as if recovering from a shock.

Then all rational thoughts were pushed aside by the pain in his head. The nausea grew, and he realised that he was about to be sick. This time, he did not implant a worded message into his head, but only shoved the thought at Erik. He heard the hum of metal (in some deep lucid part of his mind, he remembered that the bin was metal), and Erik shifted him onto his side, towards the edge of the bed. He was too weak to feel humiliated, and was simply grateful at how Erik stroked his back and offered his water when the retching stopped. It made him feel a little better afterwards, despite the way his body trembling with exhaustion and overexcitement. As Erik helped him out of his clothes, he could do little to help, but felt like a doll being undressed and dressed by a child.

‘There,’ Erik said and pulled the blankets over him. Charles wanted to thank him, or at least smile at him, but as if sensing his effort, Erik pressed his lips against his brow to keep him there.

Charles heard the door open, and being too weak to move, he became an eavesdropper to the conversation about himself.

‘How is he?’ There were quick footsteps, and the sensation of large hands against his skin.

‘He woke up when I moved him to the bed. The nosebleed stopped, but he’s been sick. He hasn’t said anything, but he communicated telepathically a few times.’ Silence. Hands. Light in his eyes. ‘Well?’

‘I can’t see any signs of any damage,’ Hank said and sighed gratefully. ‘He’s alright, thank God. Or he will be, given time.’ Footsteps retreating. ‘Which can’t be said of Cerebro. Just after you left, the controls caught fire.’

‘ _Caught fire_?’

‘I managed to put it out, but all the circuitry melted. We’re going to have to rebuild it.’

‘Did we get a location?’

‘Yes, at least that. The coordinates are for Boston.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We do what Charles said we would - we restrain it. But we’ll need a telepath for that, which means... we can’t do anything until Charles gets better.’

‘I’d have thought you’d prefer a more permanent solution.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’

Silence.

‘It’s a _child_ , Beast. Do you honestly think I would kill a child?’

‘With you, it wouldn’t surprise me.’

Scales on the tipping-point - murderous anger or exasperated pity. Then a snarl:

‘Do you really think I am so vile?’

‘Between you and me, I think they gave the name “Beast” to the wrong person.’

Consciousness proved elusive. Blackness claimed him.

***

The first Charles felt when he came to again was someone holding his hand. When he opened his eyes, he could not tell if they had drawn the curtains or if it as already dark outside. The bedside lamp was lit, and cast Erik’s sharp features in a black-and-white relief. He must have noticed him stirring, because he watched him lovingly.

‘Hello,’ Charles managed to say.

‘Hello,’ Erik answered. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Awful,’ Charles answered truthfully. ‘Drained.’ At least his head was a little better - he could at least speak. ‘What’s the time...?’

‘Past eight.’ They had used Cerebro before lunch, so he had been unconscious for most of the day. ‘Beast says you’re going to be alright,’ Erik assured him, ‘but you’ll probably have to stay in bed for the next few days.’

‘I suppose I’ll feel pretty rotten for a while,’ Charles murmured. ‘You didn’t bring me to the infirmary.’

‘Your room was closer, and I know you don’t like the infirmary,’ Erik said with a shrug. ‘We can bring down the things we need. Besides, I’ll be able to...’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘...to be with you. Hank can’t throw me out here.’ Charles pressed his hand weakly. The way Erik’s eyes shone up with a smile made him bite his lip and look away. When he did, he caught sight of a vase of roses on the bedside table.

‘Those aren’t from my garden,’ he murmured, realising even as he said it that it was a ridiculous thing to say. Not even his rose garden had flowers in January. Looking at Erik, he asked: ‘How did they get there?‘ Erik hesitated, but then confessed:

‘While Hank was bossing about and didn’t want me here to be in the way, I cycled into town and bought them.’

‘For me?’ Charles said, the warmth the realisation gave him mixing with his exhaustion. Erik did not meet his eyes, but shrugged.

‘I know you like roses.’

‘You’re a romantic, Erik Lehnsherr,’ he smiled. Erik cleared his throat and said instead:

‘You should eat something. Sean’s made some soup - it’s remarkably good. Do you think you’d manage?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Charles answered, entertained by how he avoided the subject. He tried to push himself up, but failed. ‘I think you’ll have to help me.’ Getting him into a sitting position was an odd tug-of-war, with Charles trying to push himself up on one shaking arm and Erik dragging him up by the other. When he was finally propped up against the bedboard with several pillows behind his back, Erik retrieved a bed-tray and a covered plate. With a flick of his fingers, a spoon followed and landed beside the plate. It felt like an achievement when Charles managed to keep his hand still enough to take the spoon, but when he raised it, the tremble was back. He dipped it in to the soup and almost upended the bowl. Erik, who had watched him from his perch on the bedside, took his wrist with one hand and picking the spoon out of his grip with the other. ‘Let me,’ he said quietly.

‘No,’ Charles objected and tried to take the spoon again, but he gently forced his hand down. ‘I can do it myself.’

‘Don’t be unreasonable,’ Erik told him, dipped the spoon and dragged it against the edge of the bowl to keep it from dripping. ‘Be careful - it’s hot.’ Resigning, Charles opened his mouth. Even that spoonful of soup made him feel a little better. After a few mouthfuls, he said:

‘I hate being an invalid.’

‘You’re not an invalid,’ Erik said, simply stating a fact.

‘I can’t feed myself - I think that makes me an invalid,’ Charles answered, but was silenced by another spoonful of soup.

‘You’ll recover soon. It’s only temporary.’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed mothering me.’ Erik made a grimace somewhere between a scowl and a frown.

‘I derive no pleasure from seeing you like this,’ he said, sounding reserved. It was obvious that it was not just the immediate situation he was referring to, and the look on his face showed that he actually did not want to talk about it. When he offered the spoon to him, Charles did not sip it at once, but said:

‘I’m grateful.’ Momentarily, Erik turned away his face, but he smile at the confession was still not possible to hide.

When he had had almost all the soup and Erik was scraping the last from the bottom of the bowl, Charles said:

‘Have you had any luck with the location of the source?’

‘Hank managed to save the coordinates before Cerebro’s mainframe took fire,’ he explained.

‘Did he say if it’s reparable?’ Erik shook his head.

‘It looks like you’ll have to rebuild it. Open up.’ Charles took the last drops of soup. ‘The coordinates are for Boston. There was a report from there in the material I... collected.’

‘Oh?’

‘A car accident,’ Erik explained, looking concerned. ‘A girl of ten, named Annie Richardson, was hit. She died immediately.’

‘That can’t be the reason for this,’ Charles said. ‘Whoever did this is alive - if that girl was the source, then it’d be cut short...’

‘There’s more,’ Erik said. He fell silent. ‘She was the only one injured in the accident... but two ambulances came to the scene.’ He thought through this. Did that mean there was another person involved in the accident, whose name had not been noted? Was that their quarry? ‘I’ll make some calls tomorrow.’ Charles nodded and sank back against his pillows.

‘You’ll sit with me, won’t you?’ he asked. Erik rose, rounded the bed and climbed onto it.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he assured him.

‘I heard what Hank said to you,’ Charles admitted. Erik shrugged with a sigh.

‘He’ll get over it eventually.’

‘He was out of line...’ Erik smiled.

‘Don’t bother about it now,’ he said and leaned his head against his. ‘You should rest.’

‘I’ve done nothing else for almost a fortnight,’ Charles muttered, but then thought that resting leaning against Erik made it a little better.

***

Charles was surprised at how the answer they had spent so much time and energy searching for in the end was only a name and an address of an hospital, written down on a piece of paper stuffed in his breast-pocket. Alex had volunteered to drive him, but he had opted to take Erik with him instead. As they set out on the four-hour drive, it felt almost like their recruitment trips over two years ago.

Had it not been for his continuing convalescence, Charles would have felt embarrassed by it, but soon after they left Westchester, he fell asleep, and was simply glad for the opportunity to rest. A particularly sharp corner woke him an hour or so later. When he rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, pushing himself up in the car-seat, Erik did not comment, but concentrated on the driving. Charles waited for him to speak. After several minutes of silence, he gave up and said:

‘You’re tense.’

‘It’s probably just my Soviet driving,’ Erik said reservedly.

‘It’s not the driving,’ Charles answered patiently. ‘I don’t have to read your thoughts to know that you don’t approve of this. But which part?’ He sighed, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘I wish you didn’t have to go there and do this.’ Charles had not expected that.

‘Why not?’

‘It might be dangerous,’ he answered simply.

‘I’m aware you see this as a threat, Erik, but it’s simply a girl with no control over her powers,’ Charles pointed out. ‘She witnessed another child’s death, and it unleashed her powers. She’s not to blame.’

‘It makes it no less dangerous,’ Erik said. He kept his voice level, as if he knew that if he did, he might lose control completely.

‘I’m strong enough to deal with her. I’ve repaired my mental shields.’

‘You said yourself that she was stronger even than you, and considering what she could do to you at a distance....’

‘You know what this is really about,’ Charles said and sighed. ‘You are subconsciously trying to fulfill the pattern your guilt complex has lead you to view situations.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Erik answered.

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said pointedly. ‘“If I had been able to move the coin, my mother might have lived.” “If I had been more careful, my sister may not have been killed.” “If I had paid more attention to what I was doing, Charles may not have been crippled”...’

‘I know what goes on in my own mind, thank you,’ he said, words clipped. ‘You do not need to tell me.’

‘Do you really know? Are you really aware of it?’ Charles pressed. ‘I think hearing me say it makes you aware of it. You’re doing it right now, you know - you are analysing this situation in an attempt to find a way to take responsibility, in order to feed the need to blame yourself for things which are completely out of your control.’

‘Stop it, Charles,’ Erik snapped and for a brief moment, Charles saw him fighting anger and acknowledgement of this truth. Then the reaction receded, and his grip around the car-wheel relaxed a little. Charles was silent for a moment, listening to the engine, but it seemed like Erik’s momentary loss of control had not harmed it.

‘It’s not constructive or healthy,’ he told him. ‘I bring it up because it makes me worry for you.’

‘You shouldn’t worry about me,’ Erik said grimly.

‘Because you feel that you should worry about _me_ ,’ Charles filled in. ‘Your protectiveness is touching, but it may become destructive.’

‘Because it stems from an obsession, you mean,’ he retorted.

‘Your reasons for feeling that way are understandable,’ Charles assured him. ‘You can’t escape them or undo them, but you have to be aware of them, so that they do not act on your behalf, or make a situation worse. Adding to your own pain is not going to undo anything.’

Suddenly Erik slammed down his hand onto the steering wheel and cursed.

‘We missed the right turn,’ he explained through gritted teeth. Charles exhaled, quietly relieved that the sudden outburst was not directly because of him. Nevertheless, he felt a little guilty. As Erik found somewhere to turn around and find the right turn, he said: ‘You could pick a better time to play therapy, you know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Charles said, meaning it. Erik harrumphed, and they drove in silence for a long time. The landscape outside was unchanging and uninspiring, and when Charles grew bored of it, he picked the note from his pocket. ‘Jean Grey.’ He pronounced the name under his breath, to himself. He thought it was a very pretty name - the parents had found an unusual balance between given name and surname. Imagining that the bearer of that name was that burning force he had felt when using Cerebro was difficult. They had found out a handful of things about her. She was the only child of well-educated parents, committed to hospital two weeks ago after lapsing into a coma. Charles considered the things which had coincided - Annie Richardson’s death in a car accident, Jean’s loss of consciousness, his own collapse, the symptoms in the low-telepathic students, and by implication, the manifestation of Jean’s mutant powers. This last event must be caused by the first, becoming the catalyst for all the others. She was undoubtedly a psychic, but Charles thought her powers were more complex than his. If her powers activated at the moment of her friend’s death, she may have experienced her agony telepathically, which was enough to cause the psychic wave which had hit him. The question was simply what that energy had done to the girl herself, and if there was any possibility of stopping it.

Erik interrupted his meandering thoughts.

‘I suppose you may have a point,’ he admitted. Charles looked out of the window to hide his smile at Erik’s grudging concession.

‘Only you can break that pattern of thought,’ he said. ‘Being aware of it is an important first step, and quite often the hardest.’ Erik nodded and glanced over to him. A look passed between them - it was an apology stronger than one in words. ‘Eyes on the road, Mister Lehnsherr,’ Charles then said, and smiling, Erik concentrated on driving.

When they arrived at the hospital, it was around noon.

‘Do you have a plan?’ Erik asked when he killed the engine.

‘Of course I do,’ Charles said lightly and unclipped his belt. Erik stepped out, took out the wheelchair and rolled it around to Charles’ side. The gap between the car-seat and the chair was a little too far for him to manage on his own, so Erik half lifted him the short distance, Charles’ arm around his shoulders. ‘Do you know one of the advantages of being in a wheelchair, Erik?’ he asked as he settled down and spread the blanket over his legs. Erik tucked it in with uncharacteristic fussiness.

‘What would that be?’

‘It’s very easy simply to walk into a hospital, because no one dares to question your right to be there,’ Charles explained. Erik snorted a laugh. ‘You’d better push me, to add to the picture.’

Charles was so used to that every time he went outside, people stared, so it was odd that all of a sudden, there was nothing distinct about him. As they entered the hospital, no one looked twice at the man in a wheelchair, pushed by his helpful friend. No one objected to their presence, or knew that he read the mind of the receptionist nurse, drawing the information he needed from her mind.

‘Second floor,’ he said quietly, and Erik steered him towards the lift. In the corridor of the second floor, he read the mind of a passing doctor. He realised now that he had not needed to pick the room-number from the receptionist’s mind. When he was this close, he could feel her presence. He fought an instinct of covering his ears - it was so strong that it felt like someone was screaming.

‘Here,’ he said and pointed at the right door. Erik stopped and reached for the door-handle, but Charles held out his hand to stop him. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and added: ‘Myself.’ Before Erik had time to object, Charles explained: ‘This isn’t a recruitment drive. This is speaking to the parents of a very sick girl.’ Erik’s shoulders slumped and he nodded, a little resigned. He took the blanket Charles handed him. ‘Wait here, and if there’s trouble, cause a diversion.’

‘Good luck,’ he said, doing very little to hide his worry. Charles smiled at him and opened the door.

The room was filled with the silence of premature sorrow. At the bed sat the parents, hands clasped in an attempt at mutual comfort. There lay the daughter. Now when he saw her, he felt her power with renewed force. He was glad they had not rushed this encounter - even a day ago, he would probably not have withstood this pressure. She was a beautiful child, but the face under the mane of red hair was pale, far too pale - no child should look so ill.

When he rolled in, the parents looked up, and the father got to his feet.

‘Sorry, I...’ he started, thinking that the newcomer had entered the wrong room. Charles held up his hand, silencing him.

‘Please, Mr Grey,’ he said. ‘I’m a doctor - I’m here to help your daughter.’ The couple looked at him, bewildered. Mrs Grey got to her feet slowly.

‘Are you a specialist?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘If there is a specialist on Jean’s condition, that would be me,’ he smiled and came closer, offering them his hand. ‘I’m Professor Charles Xavier.’ They shook it, relieved at the presence of someone with authority, but still hesitant to believe his claim.

‘Jean’s “condition”?’ Mr Grey said when the introductions were over. ‘Everyone has told us that they don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s simply...’ His voice broke, and he pressed his lips together. Mrs Grey squeezed his arm and finished:

‘They said she’s not going to wake up.’

‘I know what’s happening to her,’ Charles assured them and made a gesture to show them to sit. They did, clutching at each other’s hands and watching him, whey-faced and grim. ‘Jean is a mutant.’ For a moment, they stared at him; they had obviously expected him to tell them something much worse.

‘A... a mutant?’ Mr Grey stammered. ‘Like the ones they have all those debates about?’

‘Yes,’ Charles said. ‘She has extraordinary powers - psychic powers.’

‘But...’ Mrs Grey looked over at her daughter, obviously not able to accept what he was saying. ‘That’s just absurd.’

‘Jean collapsed around the same time as another girl died in a car-accident, didn’t she?’ Mrs Grey nodded.

‘Annie Richardson - she was her best friend,’ she explained. ‘They were playing and... The driver was gone when the police got there. Jean didn’t have a scratch on her, but...’

‘What does that have to do with anything, Professor Xavier?’ Mr Grey asked. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters very much,’ Charles assured him. ‘Annie’s death unlocked Jean’s mutant powers, and they are taking their toll on her now.’ Mrs Grey shook her head.

‘You can’t be serious,’ she said. ‘That just can’t be true.’

‘I assure you, it is the truth. Have there been any... odd occurrences since the accident?’

The couple looked at each other.

‘Well...’ Mr Grey started, but his wife cut him off.

‘You were imagining it, John - don’t be silly.’

‘I know what I saw, and I know it doesn’t make sense,’ he said quickly. ‘But neither does this, so perhaps it did happen!’

‘What happened?’ Charles asked. The girl’s father looked at him with hectic eyes; he must not have slept for days.

‘Rommy - her teddy bear, this one here -’ he pointed at the stuffed toy lying beside the unconscious girl ‘-it was hovering a foot over the bed. I’d dozed off and it was the first thing I saw when I woke, but I was certain...’ He trailed off.

‘That sounds like a case of telekinesis - moving things with the mind,’ Charles said. ‘Jean is certainly telepathic, so telekinesis wouldn’t be surprising.’

‘Absurd,’ Mrs Grey murmured, staring at him. ‘You’re insane, sir.’

‘I don’t care if it’s absurd,’ Mr Grey announced. ‘Can you help her?’ Charles nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘What will it take?’ he asked.

‘John, how do we know...?’

‘What other choice do we have?’ he snapped. Mrs Grey sighed and nodded.

‘You’re right.’ She turned to Charles. ‘What do you need, professor?’

‘Some time with your daughter,’ he answered. ‘You’re welcome to stay in the room, although I’d appreciate if you kept silent.’ They nodded and, on second thought, rose and retreated from the bed. Nodding his thanks, he wheeled himself closer, until he was in line with Jean. He reached out and smoothed her hair back from her face, then with a hand on her forehead slipped into her mind.

 _That power he has sensed constantly the past two weeks suddenly engulfs him. He tries to bring it into order and find a way to manifest it, to make a reality to concentrate on, not just thoughts, but all there is is that raw, heedless force, and it will not let him form a manifestation of her mind._

 _Jean?_

 _I am Phoenix. Jean is a part of me. But I am greater than her._

 _Why do you call yourself Phoenix?_

 _It is what I am. I am Phoenix, the Child of the Sun, Child of Life, the Vision of the Harmony of Things. I am Life Incarnate._

 _But you are also Jean Grey._

 _..._

 _The manifestation finally forms, but the red plain he finds himself on is not his making. In front of him sits Jean, the girl, enveloped by Phoenix, the bird of fire. He is only a mind, but nevertheless he feels pain, because she is angry at his trespass. What then is happening to his body in the physical world? He never thought one little girl would be so powerful._

 _Jean! He reaches out for her, and the girl - that little part of Phoenix - watches him, terrified. There is a decision to be made. On the one hand, the mutilation of a girl’s mind - on the other, destruction of every psychic mind on the planet, including the two of them. Charles is the one who must choose whom is to be sacrificed - Jean or Phoenix. As he stands up and starts walking towards them, as he burrows deeper into her mind, he knows that this is a decision which will haunt him, but there is nothing else he can do. He pushes through the mind of Phoenix to find the part which is Jean - he walks through Her flames and endures the agony until he reaches the girl. He seizes it with his mind - he picks her up in his arms. He turns. With all his might, he drags Jean Grey, the ordinary girl, the conscious mind, from the Phoenix. He guides her from Her flames and Her fury, and banishes Her, beyond her subconscious, to the very depths of her mind._

 _Who are you? the girl in his arms - the conscious mind he is dragging after him - whispers._

 _I’m a friend, he answers. Remember nothing of this, Jean. Soon you will be well again. They leave the star-bright power behind, and in the child he is carrying Charles only feels a fragment of that force. You’ll be safe, he assures her. (From others - from yourself.)_

And then it was over. It was probably his imagination, but when he opened his eyes, he thoughts that Jean’s breaths were coming a little easier, and there was a little more colour on her cheeks. Her parents, clinging to each other, looked at him in alarm. It was not until then he realised that his nose was bleeding. He found a handkerchief and tried to stop the flow.

‘What happened?’ Mrs Grey asked, voice trembling. Charles wiped the blood off his lip and put the ruined handkerchief away.

‘She’ll be fine,’ he told them and stroked Jean’s hair in parting before he backed away from the bed. ‘I’d think that she’ll be well enough to leave hospital tomorrow. Let her rest a few days, keep an eye on her, and then call me.’ He took his card and handed to Mr Grey. He looked at it and asked:

‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters?’

‘Call me when Jean’s better,’ he repeated and smiled at them. ‘I’ll leave you with your daughter.’ He shook hands with them again, answering their confused gratitude gladly, and left the room. As the door closed behind him, the physical impact of suppressing all that power suddenly struck. With a groan, he grabbed his head. Erik was at his side so quickly that he did not even hear him approach.

‘Charles?’ he said and pressed his hand. He was down on one knee, looking up at him. The pain tensed, peaked, receded. It became a dull rhythm in his head, and despite it, he felt a wave of relief. It felt as if he had had a pustule which had finally been cut up and cleansed. The pressure and the worst of the pain were gone. Despite himself, he laughed. ‘Are you alright?’ Erik asked. He nodded and pressed his hand.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, everything’s alright now. Let’s go home.’


	15. Chapter 15

It had been on Scott’s twelfth birthday that he went blind. Of course, that was not quite what had happened, but by implication, when laser blasted out of your eyes if you opened them, you could not see anything. He did not know how much damage he caused that first day, but he remembered the proprietress of the orphanage cursing him, vowing to throw him out the next day. That had never happened; the same evening, he had heard voices, and suddenly a cry:

‘ _Summers_? Scott? But... he’s my kid brother!’ Someone had hugged him, and Scott had tried to fight the man off. ‘Hey, kiddo, it’s Alex - don’t you remember me?’ He did not. Five years had been too tender an age to remember even a brother, who had parachuted with him from their parents’ crashing airplane. The stranger had let go of him, and someone else with soft fingers and calloused palms had taken his hand to lead him away from the orphanage.

For weeks, those hands had been the only thing which had been quite real. They had explained what happened around him, but nothing sunk in. As soon as they had arrived to what he was later to understand was the mansion, they had run tests on his optic blast. Then they had covered his eyes with swabs and gauzes.

‘You look like a soldier from the Great War now,’ professor Xavier, characterised only by his light voice and his soft hands, had said and laughed. ‘But we’ll sort you out.’

Waiting for the visor he had been promised was frustrating. It made him unruly and angry, and several times he simply threw the dressings away and blasted through whatever was closest. Alex, whom he still did not quite believe to be his brother (he had not even seen him with his own eyes, and he was thinking that he never would), tried to calm him, but to no avail. The professor had been the only one who had been able to help. He took him for walks, Scott’s hand holding onto the professor’s shoulder while he wheeled himself through the garden. Scott had always hated reading - he did not see the point of books - but in order to keep him occupied, the professor started teaching him Braille. He had told him that he had learnt it as a student out of curiosity. ‘I knew it’d come in handy at some point.’ He had guided his hands over the raised points with the patience of a teacher, until Scott could read a text faster than he could. He read everything the professor gave him; later, he had reflected on how much money they must have spent to get hold of the material.

Finally, over a month later, the visor was finished. It was chunky and uncomfortable, but at least he could see - to some extent. He had felt at once that something was off, but after a month of blindness, he did not know what. The professor had showed him pictures made up with dots, and when he had explained that he only saw the dots, Xavier had suppressed a sigh and turned it into a kindly smile instead. No amount of refinement of the visor could change the fact that Scott had lost his colour-sight almost completely. The only colour he could always distinguish was green. He would only experience flashes of colour - the grass, the shade of a tie, Jason’s right eye, some of the hairs in Beast’s fur.

That was what made this day so special. He was bored with winter; he hated the cold, and there was almost no colour. It made him moody, and, wanting to escape the others, he took refuge in the dormitory. Below where he sat in the window, something seemed to be happening - the teachers were gathered at the top of the stair. Following their glances, he saw a car coming up the drive-way. It stopped in front of the house, and a couple got out. Scott remembered now that they had mentioned that there’d be a new student. Against his own will, he felt curious, and he leaned closer to the glass as the back-door opened.

Later in life, he wold reflect upon that moment, that second when it all became worthwhile. He saw a shape move inside the car, and then step out. First, the sleeve of her pea-green winter coat, and her black shoes. Then, her hair. Scott thought that for a moment he must have stopped breathing as he watched the girl (just a kid - she must be at least three years younger than him) take her parents’ hands and go up the stairs between them. For two years, all the colour he had seen was shades of green, but now this girl’s red hair seemed to burn through the dull grey world, savagely uncompromising and recklessly beautiful. As she ascended, she glanced up. Even if Scott did not know if she saw him, he caught sight of her eyes - greener than her winter coat. He swallowed and wondered if this was what being in love felt like.

***

After Jean’s parents had left, the new student and her teachers retreated to the headmaster’s study for tea. Charles imagined that the girl had it in her to be prim, but there was little in her behaviour to indicate it. Her conversation was polite, but she did not hesitate to introduce new subjects. Even now, when most of her power was bound up and subdued, he thought he saw a flicker of it in her fine-featured face. He was already warming to this mysterious, beautiful child, and he was sure that Erik glimpsed something of her power too, because also he seemed quite taken too.

‘My old school was said to be very good, but I found it a little dull. Not very challenging,’ Jean said as they started pouring the tea. ‘But I think this’ll be wonderful.’

‘We hope so,’ Charles said, smiling back at her. Hank handed her a cup of tea, and she smiled at him.

‘Thank you. Have you studied mutations long, Doctor McCoy?’

‘Only two years,’ he said, and Charles noticed him blushing at her unprejudiced attention. ‘Professor Xavier’s the real expert on mutation.’

‘Beast has done some very important studies,’ Charles said; he did not want Hank to feel he needed to defer to him. Jean seemed perfectly happy to ask her questions to both of them. How many mutants were there? Why were there mutants? Were people born mutants, or did the gene mutate later? If it was just one gene, how come there were so many variations? They answered the best they could, and Charles realised that he had almost forgotten that, for all her manners, she was only a child. That was obvious when she looked at the three teachers she had not spoken to, and asked:

‘Are _all_ of you mutants?’ In an unusual display of companionship, Sean, Alex and Erik exchanged looks, and Erik raised his hand. A teaspoon rose suddenly from the table and threw in a rapid arch into Jean’s teacup. She yelped, but held it steady as the spoon stirred her tea and then flew up to clatter onto the saucer. She stared at the teaspoon, as if she had expected to find strings attached to it, and then laughed.

‘And the students?’ she asked, looking around at them all. Charles nodded.

‘Them too.’ Happiness lit up her face, expelling any sign of paleness.

‘I’m sure I’ll be very happy here,’ she announced.

When Alex suggested giving Jean a tour of the school and showing her her dormitory, Erik did not follow, but murmured something about clearing away and stayed behind. When the door had closed after them, he and Charles exchanged triumphant looks.

‘She’s quite the marvel,’ Erik observed.

‘A marvel?’ Charles repeated, entertained by the word. It had the sound of a dictionary find. ‘Yes, she certainly is. Perhaps we should call her that if she needs a codename? Marvel Girl?’

‘It sounds like something out of a comic,’ Erik snorted and sat down. Charles conceded that it did.

‘I’m very glad that her parents agreed to send her here,’ he then said. ‘She seems very bright, and I’m sure that she’ll fit in with the other students.’ Erik nodded and then remarked:

‘She looks remarkably well for a girl who was in a coma a week ago.’

‘Yes, she’s much better than when I saw her at the hospital,’ Charles agreed. ‘As soon as I had contained her power, her body started to recover. Children are resilient little creatures. But we’ll keep an eye on her - she’s still convalescing.’ Erik nodded and then looked away, a mischievous smile on his face.

‘Of course...’ he started. ‘So are you.’ Charles looked at him, not understanding his meaning.

‘So am I what?’

‘Convalescing,’ Erik explained, and sounded so innocent that Charles knew that he was planning something.

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ he assured him. ‘I’m completely recovered.’ Erik moved a little closer.

‘But you shouldn’t take yourself out,’ he said with a meaningful glance, as he placed a light hand on his arm. ‘You shouldn’t hesitate, if you felt you needed it, to interrupt your work... rest.’

‘What on earth do you mean, Erik?’ Charles asked, and then suddenly realised why Erik had been moving steadily closer as he spoke. A wave of arousal went through him. They kissed, not letting it built steadily but at once turning deep and forceful. Then Charles broke the kiss, remembering where they were.

‘Not here,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘Anyone might walk past the French windows...’ Erik nodded in agreement, but Charles was sure that he also wondered how they would manage to get upstairs, because the need to touch had grown suddenly pressing. Still, it had to be done. Charles wheeled himself out of the study as Erik followed. As they passed through the corridors he felt like a debauchee who neglected the running of the school in order to sleep with his lover, even if he knew perfectly well that he was not neglecting anything, and neither of them had any pressing duties. In the lift, Erik planted his hand on his shoulder and drew it down over his chest. It took all his control not to simply grab him and pull him down to him there and then.

As soon as they entered Charles’ bedroom, Erik leaned down and kissed him again. The wheels of the chair slipped, and they rolled backwards, slamming the door shut. They stayed in that awkward position, with one of Erik’s knees resting on the seat of the chair, and as they kissed deeper they started untying ties and undoing buttons. Jointly, they pulled Erik’s shirt off, and Charles guided him closer, hands on his back, to lick at his skin. Erik groaned and for a short moment, almost lost his balance. One of his hands moved from Charles’ shoulder to support him. He regained his balance, but almost instantly, he drew back to look Charles in the eye. The hurried passion was gone; in his eyes was embarrassment and guilt.

‘Erik?’ Charles said enquiringly. Erik simply looked down in answer. Following his glance, he suddenly realised. He had assumed that Erik has grabbed the armrest or the edge of the seat to regain his balance, but instead, his hand was spread over Charles’ right thigh. They looked at each other, and shocked realisation passed between them. It seemed as if the situation that Charles had complained about previously had brought itself to a peak, forcing them to recognise the inevitable.  
Afraid that Erik might draw back his hand and rob them both of the opportunity to deal with this, Charles planted his hand on top of his.

How odd the scene must have looked, had there been an observer there to see it. Two men, foreheads touching, eyes on their united hands, as if they were resting on the pointer of an ouija board. Who moved his hand first? Neither could tell, but it finally happened. Their hands moved slowly, tracing a circle down onto the inner thigh, next cupping the knee, then moving the length of the leg up to the hip, finally tracing the groin and gracing his genitals.

It was like touching another person’s body, oddly situated in place of his own. Charles followed Erik’s hand, and even as he felt his fingers under his, he also felt what he felt - the coarseness of the fabric, the heat of the skin, the softness of the flesh. He experienced all his conflicting emotions, from his desire for him, every part of him, to his horror at how his own carelessness had ruined it. _If he draws away his hand, I will push him away, Charles thought. If disgust wins out, I won’t be able to go through with this._

Their wandering hands stopped where they had started, spread on his thigh. Their eyes met. For a moment, it seemed like the scales were trying to settle, not certain which way they would tip. Charles could not tell, for all his telepathy, what would happen.

Erik’s hand retreated, but he did not withdraw. Instead, he pulled him closer and hugged him so hard that it was affectionate, not passionate. With a sigh of relief, Charles returned the embrace. But despite that conciliatory gesture and silent apology, Charles felt frustration mounted. The situation made him feel childishly insulted - he did not want to be this way. Why could he not be whole, like everyone else? Why had it happened to him?

But much of the frustration was not childish, despite that his objections felt immature, because what he wanted was not the things of a child. He wanted to pull him towards himself with a foot behind his knee, enfold him with his legs, feel him against him. He wanted it i the same way as he wanted to run across the grounds and ride over the fields and stroll through the sunny garden. He hated not only what it had robbed _him_ of, but also _them_ of. Perhaps they were paying for their sins, through being kept apart in that subtle way. The only comfort was that even if Erik felt guilt, there was no pity, and precious little bitterness.

He felt Erik’s breath against his ear and his cheek pressing against his face. His thoughts were pushing against his brain, a torrent of promises of love. They moved to look at each other. Erik smeared the tears over his cheeks, trying to dry them, and then instead kissed him.

‘Come on,’ he said, lips still brushing his.

‘Yes,’ Charles whispered. With his help, Erik lifted him out of the chair and carried him over to the bed. Some other, more primal part of their beings took over as Charles pulled Erik on top of him. As they lost their clothes and devoured each other with kisses, their previous frustration transformed into aggressive, possessive passion. It was the kind of force that Charles imagined would be dangerous if it did not take a sanctioned, controlled form in sex. When Erik’s tongue lapped at the shell of his ear and when his teeth grazed the skin of his throat, a groan-turned-scream escaped him. Some of the frustrations found a way out, and despite the things he wished for, and knew Erik wished for too, it was enough - more than enough.

Lying beside each other, sweat-soaked and exhausted, Charles rested his head against Erik’s shoulder and admitted:

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Erik kissed the crown of his head.

‘The same.’ Charles shifted closer.

‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s not a month since term started, and I feel like I need a holiday.’ Erik hummed sympathetically.

‘We will have to make these siestas to a regular thing, then,’ he answered. Charles nodded gratefully, smiling. Then, sounding more serious, Erik said: ‘You’ve had too much on your mind lately. With your being ill, and new students, and then before that, there was Ruth... No wonder you’re tired.’

‘At least it’s all over now,’ he concluded. His eyes were drifting closed, despite his better judgement.

‘Yes - all solved,’ Erik agreed and, stroking his hair, said: ‘Get some sleep. I’ll wake you.’ Charles smiled gratefully, as his perception tunneled to only the two of them, and then turned to dreams about running.

***

The next week passed with startling normality. After the events of the past two months, it was a relief, and a little odd. Charles realised that he had grown quite used to dealing with terrorist attacks, memory repression, debilitating ill-health and extremely powerful eleven-year-olds, so returning to the humdrum life lessons and paperwork, where the most dramatic thing that happened was that Erik reported that Scott would probably fail his French test again was a little anticlimactic.

A few days after Jean’s arrival, Sean rigged up a camera and both students and teachers posed for a school photograph. Several days later, Hank came to the headmaster’s study with the first copy, framed and wrapped in brown paper.

‘I thought you’d like it,’ he said expectantly when he handed it over. Charles unwrapped it and let the paper fall away, revealing the rows of children and the proud teachers. He was in the middle of the front row, flanked by Ororo, Jason and the other younger children. Sean sat on the far left, the remote shutter release just visible. The taller students stood behind them, Hank in the middle, Erik and Alex on the sides.

‘Marvellous,’ Charles said. ‘Thank you very much - I’ll put it on the mantlepiece, once I get the time.’ For now, he placed it on the desk beside the metal statue Erik had given him. As he arranged it, he felt Hank’s eyes on him. When he looked up, he noticed how troubled he seemed. ‘Was there anything else on your mind, Hank?’ he asked, keeping his tone light. Hank hesitated and then sat down.

 

‘Yes,’ he admitted nervously. ‘I thought, now when you’re better, that we could, eum, discuss the... issue that’s come to light.’ Charles was about to ask what he meant when he realised precisely what he was speaking of.

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I need to know, professor,’ Hank explained and turned his hands. ‘How long has it been going on?’ Resigning himself to the fact that there was no way of averting this conversation, Charles slumped back in his chair.

‘Since October.’ Hank’s eyes grew in alarm. ‘The day Ororo made it hail, to be precise.’

‘So this has been going on for... over three months?’ Charles nodded. ‘God, I can’t believe it,’ Hank murmured. ‘Professor, how could you...’ He floundered for words and finally exclaimed: ‘...be so _stupid_?’

‘I’m not being stupid,’ Charles said sternly. ‘We’re capable of making our own decisions. And if you think that we have done something that might harm me, I can assure you that we have always been very sensible.’ Hank stared at him and gave a disbelieving laugh.

‘Did you really not consider the consequences?’

‘I have, but I decided that for once, I would take Erik’s lead,’ Charles said.

‘And what’s that?’ Hank asked. ‘Moral anarchy?’

‘Beast, I’m sorry, but this does not concern you.’ His patience was already wearing thin. Usually Hank responded at once to that tone, but now he tightened his jaw and stayed where he was.

‘It _does_ concern me,’ he said. ‘When they step in and close down the school, it’ll concern all of us.’ Before Charles could interrupt, he pressed on, gesturing widely with his furry hands. ‘The government knows who we are and what we are, professor - all they have to do is find us, and that won’t be that difficult. They can’t close down the school because we’re mutants, so they’ll look for something else. Don’t you see that you’ve given them that opportunity?’ Of course he had thought of it, and he had put off acting on the attraction he knew was requited because of it, but he would not tell Hank that. It would be admitting defeat.

‘Who will tell them?’ he asked ‘Will Sean, or Alex? Will the children? Will you, Hank?’

‘Of course not!’ Hank exclaimed, struggling to control the pitch of his voice. ‘You know that - none of us would do such a thing. We’d rather die! But that’s not the point - they’ll find out somehow. If one of the children sees something and mentions it to the parents, and they realise it and call the police, or if they’re tapping the phones and you say something, or if they see you in public... I don’t see how I missed it for so long - it’s glaringly obvious now.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Imagine the scandal, professor,’ he said helplessly. ‘It’d be huge. Imagine the things they’d say - not just about mutants, but also... also...’ He struggled with the word. ‘....homosexuals running a school....’

‘How can you imply such a thing?’ Charles snapped. ‘Really, Hank, you are _completely_ out of line!’

‘ _I_ didn’t imply it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I said they will - the police, the papers...’ He shook his head, looking close to tears. ‘I can’t believe this. Why would you risk all you’ve worked for these past years for something like this - for a... dalliance?’

‘And doesn’t my happiness count for anything?’ Charles asked. ‘Why must _I_ always make the sacrifices? Am I just broken goods that deserves nothing unless I serve a purpose?’ Hank stared at him, shocked.

‘Of course not,’ he said weakly. ‘All I mean, professor, is that you don’t have to try to achieve that happiness in such a destructive relationship. This isn’t natural - you’re making yourself ill. When this kind of behaviour occurs after adolescence, it invariably leads to mental illness...’ Charles sighed exasperatedly and rubbed his face.

‘And why do you think that is?’ Hank looked up, confused. ‘Suppose it’s the same reason why so many mutants struggle with themselves? The same reason why Jason wouldn’t talk when he came here, or you wouldn’t show your feet, or, for that matter, why Erik is the way he is? If you tell someone enough times that they’re wrong, they’ll start to believe it, and they’ll start hating themselves, and nothing drives the mind to despair as self-hate.’ Hank sighed, as if he did not know what to say to that, and an uncomfortable silence fell. After a long time, Beast said:

‘I don’t see why you didn’t send him away when you realised where this was leading.’

‘This is a place of refuge for all mutants,’ Charles said and felt like he was reciting something, too sick of this conversation to point out that it was always leading there and he did not want to send Erik away. ‘It is open to anyone who needs sanctuary. I couldn’t send him away.’

‘Open to anyone?’ Beast asked and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘So if Shaw would turn up at our doorstep, would we let him stay?’

‘Shaw was a war-criminal,’ Charles said sharply. ‘That’s altogether different.’

‘And Erik _isn’t_ a criminal?’ he pressed. ‘That man is a murderer. That’s nothing he can atone.’ Charles met his eyes, but did not speak yet. Yes, Erik had killed. He was a murderer. Charles should hate him for it - he should not want anything to do with him. With anyone else, he would shun them because of it. What made Erik different? Simply that he loved him. That bias saved him.

‘This is my school and my mansion, Beast,’ he said, articulating every word carefully. ‘I and no-one else chooses who stays here, and if you object to those choices, you are under no obligation to stay.’ Hank’s jaw tightened angrily, but the look in his eyes did not escape him. He was concealing it, but the mere mention of the possibility of leaving hurt worse than anything.

‘I don’t have any objections,’ he said stiffly and rose.

‘Thank you for the photograph,’ Charles said, but knew that it did not sound sincere. Hank only nodded and left. His galumphing progress down the corridor could be heard, and the force of his footsteps spoke of his anger. Charles sighed and leaned his chin in his hands, eyes on the metal statuette. He had acted in the only way he thought right - Hank had no reason to say those things to him, and he preferred not to contemplate what he had said about Erik. His gaze wandered to the school photo, and he reached out to touch the glass. He traced the row of their frozen faces, and watched all those eyes which looked back at him, asking for protection and attention. They were his responsibility, the new students as well as the old ones. If he made a mistake, they would be the ones to suffer. It suddenly felt like a heavy burden.

***

Hank had dinner with the students, which meant that the teachers’ dinner was not as awkward as he had wondered if it would be. Alex told the others how Jean had accidentally used her telekinesis during games, and there had been an argument about powers in sports. Scott, who had always favoured pure sportsmanship before using mutant abilities, now suddenly took Jean’s side and announced that it would be good practice if they could use their powers for competition. When Alex had pointed out that in his case, it would be out of question considering what he could do, his face had gone red and this fraternal humiliation in front of the new girl had kept him silent for the rest of the session. The story made the others chuckle in a way which would probably make Scott blush yet again.

After dinner, Erik lingered to let Charles catch up.

‘Has something happened?’ he asked when Charles stopped in front of him in the corridor. ‘You look a little... unsettled.’ He sighed and pushed his fringe out of his face.

‘Hank came to see me this afternoon,’ he explained under his breath, afraid that they might be overheard. ‘He had... opinions.’ Erik sighed.

‘He has no business having opinions about _that_.’

‘I know,’ Charles said. ‘Still, it gets my goat. I think I could do with a drink, and perhaps a game of chess.’ Erik made an apologetic grimace.

‘I need to mark those tests,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Charles said quickly. ‘Of course. Don’t worry.’

‘I could bring them down...’ He waved the suggestion away.

‘There’s no need. You’ll work better if I’m not there to disturb you.’ Erik looked grateful.

‘It’s not just today’s French tests - it’s the German ones from last week too, so it may take all evening.’

‘No matter,’ Charles said and forced a smile. ‘You know where to find me.’

‘Of course.’ Erik pressed his shoulder and then headed upstairs. Charles suppressed a resigned sigh and wheeled himself to the lift.

Left to his own devices, he decided against alcohol and instead settled with a book and a cup of cocoa. The novel did not engage him, but he pressed on, and when he finally gave up and decided to go to bed, it was past eleven. He had just put on his pyjamas when he sensed something - an agitated mind, not very close but close enough to feel clearly. Pausing, Charles concentrated on it. Its distress pulsed against his mind, confusion mixing with anger.

There was no way he could ignore that silent call for help, however unintentional it was. Putting his dressing-gown and slippers on, he lifted himself into his chair again and left his room. He followed the familiar corridors, the mind becoming a beacon calling him. Finally, he reached the corridor which ran by the dormitories. There was his quarry, his back against the wall, trying to silence the sobs with a hand.

As Charles approached, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu from the time when he had found Jason crying in the downstairs corridor. It struck him now how much difference the four months which had passed had made. Then, Jason had seemed so tiny, curled up and crying. Now, he seemed taller - less like a child, but perhaps it was simply that he stood up, and was trying not to cry. It did not make him look any less vulnerable, his bare feet visible under the hem of his nightgown and his braid untangling over his shoulders.

‘What’s the matter, Jason?’ Charles said softly, not wanting to startle him or wake the others. Jason looked up, but his hand remained pressed over his mouth. ‘I could sense you from the other side of the house. What’s wrong?’ His hand left his mouth, and instead he tapped his temple with two fingers. It took for Charles a moment to realise what the charade meant; it was such a long time since he asked such a thing of him. ‘Read your thoughts?’ he said, and received a nod. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’ He pressed his lips together defiantly. ‘You’ll have to tell me, Jason.’ It felt wrong to prompt him now, when he was so upset, but there was little he could do, afraid that he might fall back into his previous habit of not speaking.

Obviously annoyed, Jason gnashed his teeth, while new tears trailed down his cheek. He swallowed another sob.

‘There, there,’ Charles said soothingly and reached out to dry his tears. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong, and we’ll fix it.’

Jason opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it and then tried again. The sound he made was not quite speech; it was a croaking hiccup, an unpleasant grating sound. When he heard it, he snapped his mouth shut and covered it with both his hands, fighting tears again.

Charles watched him in sudden sympathy. No wonder that he thought Jason looked older - how could he have forgot that he was hitting puberty? That was enough to cause any child to panic, but it would be worse for Jason. His body was rebelling against him, turning him into something he felt that he was not. Charles should have realised that this would happen, sooner or later, but he had been too occupied with other things, and when he had, he had been content to wave Jason’s conviction away as a silly hangup which could be tolerated, if it helped. The reason why it was possible to simply leave it be was that it was so believable. After all, Jason was only a child, and it can be hard to tell boys and girls from each other. When he wore a dress and had his hair long, there was very little which showed that he was a boy. It was possible to ignore that he was a little taller and a little bonier than most of the girls, and any telling facial features were easy to miss, as his eyes tended to draw attention from the rest of his face. Somehow, Charles had simply assumed that this was a phase which would pass, willfully ignoring how Jason thought of himself as “she” and that, even if he had not dared to admit it, there was a name which he thought of himself as.

Had Charles’ reluctance to admit that and call him by that name (how obvious the choice was after all) been part of an attempt to keep Jason in that old role as the unruly boy which needed to be corrected? Had he simply become a second strict father by implying a fault? But if he yielded, he would leave Jason open to the hatred and disgust of the world. Was the child’s self-fulfillment worth that hate? Briefly, he thought of Erik, who had accused him of being a coward on several occasions. Perhaps he was right. He watched from his ivory-tower, built from his wealth and education, and when his powers revealed other people’s suffering, it seemed to him merely a curiosity which he studied with detached interest. But, another part of him argued back, was it really cowardly, wanting to keep people safe? Yes, he had always advised Hank to stay within the grounds, and he had dissuaded Raven to show people her blue form, but it was for their own safety. In the same way, if he resisted Jason’s desire to pretend to be a girl, it was because it would make him vulnerable. At best, the child would be considered insane. At worst, he would be branded a freak. Worst of all, he already had been, by his father. Even if the Colonel had not really understood what was going on, he had sensed that something was different. Perhaps, Charles reflected, he simply blamed it all on Jason’s mutation. It was easier not to speculate that his son might mentally be female.

Pushing these reflections aside, he looked at the child who was not a child anymore - a boy desperately wanting to grow into a woman, a girl turning into a man. Charles needed a way to reach him, through that oppressive silence Jason enveloped himself in. This once, he would give in and ignore his better judgement.

‘Medea, isn’t it?’ he said softly. She started, but something hopeful flared in her eyes. ‘Listen to me,’ Charles urged her and reached out a hand. Hesitantly, she took it. ‘You can create illusions. You’re learning to change little things. You could change how others perceive you. Say, the pitch of your voice.’ She swallowed and said hoarsely:

‘But I’d know.’

‘Yes,’ he said, shrugging helplessly. ‘But we’ll find a way to make it easier. I promise.’ She nodded, not daring to look at him. ‘This is what we’re going to do,’ Charles told her and leaned in a little, as if speaking in confidence. ‘Your name - it’ll be our secret. Just between the two of us. Then, when you’re old enough...’

‘Can it be my mutant name?’ she asked, brightening. He nodded.

‘Yes - when you’re old enough to join the team. It fits, doesn’t it? Medea was a sorceress, after all.’ Now she smiled, despite the tears. ‘But now, you should get to bed.’ The smile slipped away, and Jason - the status quo suddenly returning - hung his head. ‘Come on.’ He was a child again as Charles lead him back into the dormitory which he had escaped from. They moved slowly not to wake the others, and the only sound was the patter of Jason’s feet and the soft creak of the floorboards under the wheels. With all the paternal tenderness he had felt at the sight of the school photo, Charles put the child to bed and tucked him in.

‘Good night,’ he whispered and patted his hair. ‘It’s all going to be alright.’ Jason nodded, looking like he was about to fall asleep at once.

‘Our secret?’ he whispered. ‘The name?’

‘Yes, our secret,’ Charles answered with a smile. ‘Now go to sleep.’

‘Good night, professor,’ he whispered, and his eyes drifted shut. Charles stayed for a moment, looking around the dormitory. He left, careful not to wake his students, and returned slowly to his room, feeling strangely weighed down. Was it the secret of Jason’s name? It was not an altogether pleasant sobriquet - the Medea of the myth was after all a vengeful, frightening woman, a portrayal of all the things the ancient Greeks feared of female characteristics. Even her name, supposedly connected to the word for plotting and scheming, was ominous, even if it fitted Jason, when he masterminded his illusions. When Charles thought about it, his school Greek came back to him and he remembered another, similar word - _medeteros_ , “neither of the two”. The irony did not escape him. Neither, or both? That was a question of definition, he guessed.

Charles returned to his room and heaved himself into bed at once. Lying down was a relief - he felt a little light-headed with exhaustion. He had expected himself to fall asleep at once, but the worry kept him awake. Now it dawned on him how stupid he had been to promise Jason to find a solution to his problem - what solution could he possibly offer? He could not stop him from growing up. There was nothing by definition unnatural about his voice breaking. Of course, that did not change that it seemed abhorrent to Jason himself. What was the right course of action - which nature should be encouraged? Charles considered it for a while, but could not convince himself that biological nature trumped the nature of the self. That really just made the situation worse. Jason was being betrayed by his body, not like Hank or Charles, by mishap or accident, but by its own doing. There was nothing Charles could do to stop the distress puberty would cause him. What was the promise of a name, in the face of the humiliation of complete loss of control over oneself? He imagined that he was in some kind of position to understand it. It seemed hopeless.

He pushed himself off his back and onto his side, burrowing his face into the pillow. The image of the school photograph floated before his eyes. Those young faces, turning to him for protection and help. Not to the other teachers, however much they liked them - to _him_ , and he could do nothing. The children at the school always seemed to be so many, but they were just a fraction of the mutant children - and children in general - who were cast out of society. Who cared for those other children? Who would care for his children, if anything happened to him? The others were so young, with the exception of Erik. Would he take up his place? Would he be ready for the task? _Are_ you _ready for the task?_ he asked himself. _Have you been, these past years?_ He tried, so often, so hard, leaning on his experience as an academic, a doctor and a mentor, and still, he could barely comfort a crying twelve-year-old. If he could not do that, then what was the point of him?

He gave in, and the tears welled up out of him. Crying was a relief, an outlet for his worries as well as a self-indulgence. He was so concentrated on each individual tear, each cathartic sob, that he only vaguely registered the door opening. There was no doubt of the identity of the intruder, of course, particularly not when the mattress shifted and a hand pressed his shoulder.

‘Charles?’ said Erik’s familiar voice. Charles stayed as he was, hoping in vain to hide his tears. He knew that Erik had slipped out of his own room, thinking he would surprise him by his appearance - he had not even expected to find him awake. His vision of what would have happened - tender kissing and falling asleep closely pressed together - was so much more pleasant than reality ever was. Charles quenched a sob with his hand. ‘Charles, why are you crying?’ Sniffing, he turned his wet face into the pillow. Erik leaned closer. ‘What is wrong, my friend?’

‘I can’t do this,’ he sobbed. It had gone beyond the shedding of dignified tears. Suddenly the sobs ripped through his body, and every time he wiped the tears off his cheeks, new ones fell in their stead. Erik leaned closer and held him in a half-hug. ‘I can’t be the father of all these children.’

‘No one is asking that of you,’ Erik said softly. ‘You’re their teacher, not their parent.’

‘It adds up to the same thing,’ he answered, even if his speech came out slurred. ‘I could make the same mistakes. Erik, I’m too young for all this - I keep thinking I’ve grown so old, but I haven’t... I try, but I can’t help any of them, there’s nothing I can do...’ He broke off, and Erik pressed closer. Charles half wanted to turn and bury his face against his shoulder to cry until his pyjama jacket was soaked, but instead he pressed his face deeper into the already tear-stained pillow. A sob which verged on a scream broke lose. ‘I’m scared,’ he admitted. ‘What if I do something wrong? If I’m too kind - too stern? Trying to be a father when they need a teacher, or a teacher when they need a father? For goodness’ sake, I’m supposed to be a grown man, why am I so _scared_?’

Erik stroked his hair soothingly.

‘You know that,’ he said, affection in his voice. ‘We never quite grow up - we can’t escape our fears. _You_ explained that to me, you know.’ That made him sob even harder; something in Erik’s gentle sincerity moved him deeply. But it all felt so fragile. Charles thought of the small things which sufficed to break a body - the pressure of a vein could end a life, and a fractured vertebra could cripple a man. A mind could be wiped with a thought, and a calm countenance could be smashed with a few malicious words. What would it take to break this - their love? A tactless statement - a new disagreement - a groundless accusation?

Now, Erik lay down alongside him and pulled him into his embrace, his hand taking his and pressing it to his chest. Charles clung to it, grateful and frustrated at the same time. There were so many things he could never explain. His worry for them. His quite resentment against his mother, who had never taken the time to love him, because he had always been his father’s son too much for her to bear it. His fear for failure - with his students and with the world. His doubts, that he may be wrong and Erik may be right. His fear that he would be the one to put them in danger, because of his own foolishness.

‘Charles, the children love you, no matter what,’ Erik assured him. ‘ _I_ love you, no matter what.’

‘Isn’t that a promise which might be hard to keep?’ Charles choked, but at least it was possible to make out what he said.

‘I don’t say it lightly,’ he answered. ‘You know that.’ Charles sighed, cursed himself and turned to his other side, trying not to elbow Erik in the process. He settled with his head against his shoulder and his arms around him. He did not dare to say it, not wanting to start crying yet again, but he thought it.

 _I would be lost without you. There is no colour in the world when you are not at my side. The sun only breaks through the clouds when you are with me. If I ever lost you, I would lose my soul._

‘That won’t happen,’ Erik whispered and kissed him. In his arms, he fell asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

On the fourth night, Mystique lost patience. 

‘We’re wasting our time,’ she announced in Magneto’s raspy voice. Even when speaking with his vocal organs, she found it difficult to imitate. It had taken her a week to fully master its subtle Germanic lilt. In present company, she did not have to pretend, but she disliked acting out of character when in another’s form. Then again, this was a version of Magneto she was not used to playing - she felt vulnerable without the helmet and cape. Her clothes now were not unlike those Erik had worn when he stepped off the ground and soared away in a crackle of magnetic energy. He had looked back at her, and she had returned the gaze with the same eyes. Briefly, she remembered the shadow of regret passing over his face. It was months ago, and those months had changed her. She had grown colder and more determined since then, in ways that Erik never allowed himself to be shaped. She did not see why he of all people had given up this. 

The telepath beside her shifted in the car seat. Considering the ways he was smirking, she had followed this entire train of thought. 

‘Callisto’s tip was a show of good faith,’ she pointed out. ‘She wasn’t lying.’ 

‘What do I care if it was in good faith?’ Mystique snorted. ‘I don’t trust the Morlocks, and I don’t trust their leader.’ 

‘Oh, the implication of this is _big_ ,’ Emma said and gave a crooked smirk. ‘We could use this.’ 

‘You mean...?’ 

‘It’s something to bargain with,’ she explained. Mystique considered this, intrigued despite herself. It would be an excellent way to reestablish the upset balance of the Brotherhood. With a lead like this, surely he must consider... 

‘But it’d only work if Callisto’s right,’ Mystique said, deciding not to get carried away. She started drumming her fingers against the steering-wheel impatiently. ‘I don’t see the reason for us to do this.’ 

‘The dirty-job, you mean,’ Emma answered. The term was certainly apt. Even sitting in a car in this filthy neighbourhood made Mystique feel itchy with dirt, in a way she could barely remember from her childhood. Beside her, Emma looked as perfect as ever, not a stain on her white clothes. Mystique could not help feeling infuriated by it. Did she never spill things? How had she managed not to bleed on them when she had those nosebleeds a few weeks back, and how did she cope with periods? Perhaps she was too excellent to have them. That, at least, was a good thing with being in this form, Mystique reflected. Not having a uterus most of the time turned out to be an advantage. Still, that did not mean she was not frustrated by the fact that she was stuck in the shape of a scarred man of six foot two. She missed her own body - she missed herself. This one may be strong, but it was not as agile as her own. She tried to remember exactly what arguments had convinced her of this plan - for whom had she done it? Then she reminded herself that she was not wearing her helmet, and Emma was probably reading her mind. Unlike other telepaths Mystique had known, Emma had no scruples about such things. 

She stopped her drumming; even that was starting to annoy her. They had spent four nights straight in a parked car in the poorest, most dank part of New York on a tip from the leader of the Morlocks. Magneto might have trusted them, but Mystique did not. Even if it was oppression that had forced them to live in the sewers under the cities, she could not help feeling disgusted at it. She may make a convincing Magneto, but she did not yet share all his socialist ideas. This was all Emma’s idea - perhaps it was time to pull rank on her. They had had other plans - plans to put things right... Still, Emma’s powers was probably the only thing which had kept them from getting robbed these past few nights, and that was something to be grateful for. She could of course step out of the car, turn into a tramp and walk away, but all matters considered, staying here was better. 

‘Mystique,’ Emma snapped suddenly. Mystique looked at her and realised she was pointing through the windscreen at a hunched shape a little way away. It (it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman) was speaking to two men in trench-coats, hats pressed low over their faces. It was a brief conversation; the shape nodded and one of the men took its arm in support. They all left. Mystique looked at Emma, whose eyes were screwed up in concentration. 

‘Well?’ she said as her heart-rate picked up. Callisto may have been right after all... Without warning, Emma poured what she had just read in the minds of the two trench-coated men into hers. Mystique gasped as the information sank in. Then the gasp turned into a laughter, high-pitched and wrong in Magneto’s voice. They were going to war. 

***

In light of what had happened with Jason, Charles decided that the child probably needed more attention. One free afternoon, he called him to the study. Jason was unmistakably still shaken by his voice started breaking, and he was still reluctant to speak, but he accepted Charles’ challenge. As he sat opposite him on the sofa, his eyes were no longer mismatched. They were both blue, then suddenly both green, then shifted and became artificial violet. 

‘Now just one,’ Charles told him, watching his eyes and monitoring his mind. His left eye turned its usual green, while the other stayed violet. The rest of his face remained unchanged, as did the room. ‘Well done. Do you think you can manage to make them different colours, but others than usual?’ Jason nodded, but this time, he could see the colours shifting. They had been going for an hour now - no wonder he was exhausted. The now-violet eye darkened, while the green became lighter. The illusion would not quite hold, turning one eye almost black and the other so light brown that it was almost orange. ‘I think that’s enough for now,’ Charles said. Jason exhaled and slumped back, eyes returning to their usual colours. 

‘It’ll never work,’ he said with a sigh. 

‘You’re doing very well, Jason,’ Charles assured him. The child puckered his lips and hunched his shoulders. 

‘I don’t like that name,’ he said. Before Charles could say anything, not wanting add to the confusion by calling him Medea, Jason put his hands to his head. ‘My head hurts.’ 

‘You’ve been concentrating for very long,’ Charles said. ‘It’s not odd. All you need is a bit of rest, and then you’ll be alright.’ There was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Susanna with the tea,’ he explained and unlocked the wheels. ‘Come in!’ 

As he approached, the door opened, and Susanna entered, eyes on her tray, afraid to spill it. 

‘Wonderful, Susanna.’ She looked up, but she did not greet him. Instead, her eyes grew, her mouth worked noiselessly, and then the tray slipped from her hands. Only her high-pitched scream drowned the clatter of the metal and the smashing of china. 

‘Susanna!’ Charles cried and wheeled closer. She was still screaming, grabbing at her hair, as she looked right through him. Charles turned and looked at Jason, who was staring blankly at them from where he sat. For a moment, the illusion bled through, and he caught a glimpse of the blood Susanna saw, but he did not see where it came from - he was in the position of the source, it seemed. ‘Jason, stop it,’ he said quickly as porcelain crunched under the wheels. ‘Concentrate! Susanna, it’s alright!’ He reached out and grabbed her wrists. One of her hands thrashed out, connecting with his arm. Pushing his principles aside, he pushed into her mind and erected swift shields around it, breaking Jason’s grip of her. She gulped, stumbled and fell to her knees. She started crying in earnest, hands covering her face. There were swift footsteps in the corridor, and next moment Erik came rushing in. 

‘What’s going on?’ He looked around the scene of devastation, from Jason to Charles to Susanna. ‘Be careful - there’s glass on the floor.’ Grimly caring, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Charles noticed how her striped dress had been splashed with tea, and reflected that anyone who could not control temperatures would probably be burned by it. 

‘Mister Lehnsherr!’ she sobbed. ‘It was awful... It...’ Erik cast a helpless look at Charles, who gave him a small nod. He gave her an awkward hug. 

‘There, there, child,’ he said. ‘No harm done.’ 

‘It was... I saw...’ 

‘Susanna, it’s alright,’ Charles said and was about to approach when pain shot through his arm.

‘Charles?’ Erik let go of Susanna and pushed past, stepping over the broken china to his side. 

‘It’s alright.’ Charles said, involuntarily gritting his teeth. ‘I was too concentrated on dealing with the situation to notice.’ Erik had already taken hold of his arm and made him hold it out. The sleeve of both his shirt and jumper bore identical holes, singed around the edges. On his arm, a red burn was developing, roughly in the form of a hand-print. Susanna made a pathetic sound. 

‘Professor...’ she stuttered. ‘I’m... oh, forgive me...’ 

‘Don’t just stand there,’ Erik snapped as he undid the cufflink and pulled up Charles’ sleeve. ‘Go fetch Beast.’ Scared into submission, she left at once, as Erik inspected the burn. ‘It’s big, but doesn’t look very serious,’ he commented. ‘How did all this happen?’ He gestured at the dropped tea-tray. 

‘I’d like an explanation as well,’ Charles just said and looked over his shoulder at Jason. He was still watching them, with violet eyes. 

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said weakly. ‘It just happened.’ Charles paused, but knew that he was telling the truth. 

‘It’s important that you stay in control,’ he reminded him, trying not to sound unkind. ‘You frightened us all.’ 

‘Sorry.’ Jason bit his lip and then turned around, his back to them. Charles suppressed a sigh, just as Hank came storming in. 

‘What’s happened here?’ he asked. ‘Professor, that burn...!’ 

‘Susanna was startled, that’s all,’ he explained. Erik, noticing Hank’s glare, stepped away and went to speak to Jason, trying to calm him too. As Hank looked at the burn, he asked: 

‘Professor, is Susanna alright?’ 

‘Jason made her see something unpleasant,’ he explained and glanced over his shoulder. Erik was sitting beside the boy, explaining something to him. He felt a flare of familiar affection for the man. ‘It was just an accident.’ 

‘I meant in general,’ Hank said. ‘She was quite agitated now, but recently, she’s seemed... distracted.’ 

‘She’s sixteen - of course she’s distracted on occasion,’ Charles said kindly. Hank shrugged, as if to say that he knew best, and continued treating the burn. 

***

Charles could not help thinking that it was odd that still no one had realised that Erik seldom spent an entire night in his own room. Surely some of the others must be in the corridors occasionally, and see him making his way to the master bedroom? If Hank had ever seen him, he had probably filed it under things he was going to pretend did not happen, and neither Alex nor Sean seemed to have made any connection. The past few days, Erik had not even sneaked over in the night, but simply changed into nightclothes and turned up. Charles had always imagined that his insistence to always sleep together was for his own sake, but now he realised that it was equally because of Erik’s wish to keep an eye on him. That evening when he entered, Charles was still in the chair. 

‘Are you going to bed?’ Erik asked and leaned down to put his arms around his neck. 

‘In a moment,’ he said and reached up to touch his face. For all the worry all this caused him, nothing calmed Charles as his presence. A warm, grateful feeling passed through him, and he rested their heads together. Then he drew back and explained: ‘I need to put some salve on my burn.’ 

‘Of course.’ As Charles wheeled into the bathroom, he was aware of Erik taking off his dressing-gown. ‘How is it doing?’ 

‘Alright,’ he answered, pulling up his sleeve. The area was red and felt unpleasant, but there was no blistering. ‘Thank goodness Susanna has such small hands.’ 

‘How much heat can she produce?’ Erik asked from the bedroom. As he dabbed cream on the red area on his arm, Charles answered: 

‘If she concentrated, she could probably cause third-degree burns. When her powers started manifesting, she made a curtain catch fire.’ He put the tube away and washed his hands, then turned to the other medicines in his cupboard. Half-way through picking out the evening medication, he stopped, frowning. Thinking he must be wrong, he counted the jars, but he had been right the first time around. All he could do was to shrug and take the medicines which were there. When he came to bed, he was still sighing at his own incompetence, loud enough for Erik to notice. 

‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘Oh, nothing, really,’ Charles said, reluctant to admit it, but Erik’s gaze made it difficult to simply wave it away. ‘I’m out of one of my medicines. I thought I had some left, but I don’t. I thought I’d learned, after years of this, but..’ Erik’s forehead creased in worry. 

‘Is it something you need?’ he asked. 

‘It’s nothing which will kill me to be without,’ Charles assured him. ‘Just a muscle-relaxant. It means I might kick you during the night, though, so I apologise in advance.’ He budged closer, and Erik moved too, but did not put his arm around him yet.

‘You get spasms?’ he asked, worry in his voice. 

‘They’re not that bad,’ Charles said with a shrug. ‘I can’t feel it. Besides, the medication usually does the trick.’ He noticed Erik hovering over him. ‘Don’t worry about me, Erik,’ he said. ‘Hank keeps me drugged up. Well, perhaps that’s not a fair way to put it - he does his job. I function - I can’t complain. Stop looking at me like that and come here.’ Erik embraced him, dry lips pressing against his cheek. They whispered good-night and pretended to sleep, for each other’s sakes. 

***

The next morning, Erik’s shin bore a large bruise where Charles’ heel had connected with it during the night. He claimed that he had been asleep when it happened, but Charles could tell he was lying; Erik had managed no more than his usual four hours of sleep. He was rather impressed at how well he functioned on it, and his lies were only transparent to him. 

After breakfast, Charles called Hank’s attention. 

‘I’m clean out of baclofen,’ he explained. Hank frowned. 

‘I thought I gave you a new jar only last month.’ Charles shrugged. 

‘I can’t remember - it’s an awful lot of medicines. I don’t remember what you gave me when. I don’t have any of it left. I’d even thrown out the jar.’ Hank looked at him, doubt in his eyes, but waved him with him. They went up to the infirmary, where Hank retrieved his records of the medical supplies. Charles looked around, trying to look occupied as he leafed through the notes to find the right part. 

Hank stopped, and proclaimed: 

‘Yes, I was right. I gave you a new jar the eighteenth of January.’ _Less than a month ago - twenty-six days._ In the time it took for him to calculate that, Hank had pulled up a chair and sat down. He bit his lip and spoke. ‘Professor...’ 

Charles realised suddenly what he was thinking.

‘You think I’ve started abusing the stuff,’ he said, shocked at the idea. Hank swallowed nervously. 

‘There are sixty pills in every jar, the dose is one pill a day, it’s twenty-six days since I gave you a new jar,’ he recited. ‘If you’re out of it already...’ He started pushing down the cuticles of his claws, obviously not wanting to look at him. Charles rolled his eyes. 

‘What do you take me for, Hank?’ he exclaimed, but realised at once that he was being unfair. He bit his lip and tried to reign in his temper. ‘You’re right to raise that concern - of course you were. You are my doctor, after all. I know you don’t make mistakes with your notes, but I honestly don’t know what has happened to the remaining thirty-four pills. They’re not in my cupboard. I guess I must have thrown it out.’ Hank still looked sceptical, and Charles sighed. ‘Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word? I’ve always been honest with you.’ Hank looked away. 

‘Well, not _always_ ,’ he said. Charles leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. 

‘Please, Hank, not again.’ Hank pressed his lips together defiantly, suddenly looking his young age. Then he rose and retrieved a jar of pills from the medicine cupboard. He made it all look like an act of defiance. ‘I believe you,’ he said and handed it to him, even if his voice betrayed him. 

‘Thank you,’ Charles said and, hiding his annoyance, left. 

***

It was a relief when Erik came into his office that afternoon. 

‘I’m terribly glad to see you,’ Charles admitted as he waved him closer. Erik crossed to him and kissed him, then leaned against the desk leisurely. 

‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘I’m just angry with Hank,’ he explained. ‘He seems to think I’ve taken up substance abuse.’ Erik frowned. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Oh, the baclofen, the medicine I ran out of,’ Charles explained. ‘It turned out that he gave me a new jar last month, so there should have been over thirty pills left, but, well, there weren’t.’ Erik’s frown deepened. 

‘So what happened to it?’ he asked. Charles shrugged. 

‘I don’t know - I guess I must have thrown it away, thinking it was empty,’ he said. 

‘Wasn’t it a glass jar?’ Erik asked. 

‘Well, yes - brown glass.’ Charles admitted to himself that that was strange. ‘Perhaps I’ve started going senile, along with grey-haired and balding,’ he said, but the joke did not ring true. Erik seemed to think it over. ‘Look, Erik, he’s not right about it.’ 

‘I trust you,’ he assured him. ‘But have you ever thrown out that much medicine away accidentally before?’ 

‘No,’ Charles admitted, ‘but...’ He faltered. ‘Erik, what are you thinking?’ He smiled at him, as he always did at that question. 

‘Not that you’re going mad, if that’s what you think,’ he said reassuringly. ‘But it seems to me that you’re consciously not considering the most obvious explanation.’ 

‘What is that?’ Charles asked. 

‘That someone else took it, naturally.’ He stared at him. 

‘But... no!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s my private bathroom.’ 

‘Do you lock the cabinet you keep your medicines in?’ Erik asked. 

‘No,’ Charles admitted. He had never thought that there was any need. 

‘And the door to your room?’ Charles shook his head. 

‘Everyone knows that it’s my bedroom. They respect my privacy. You’re the only one who enters it other than me, and I’m certain you haven’t stolen anything.’ 

‘No, I haven’t,’ Erik assured him.

‘Of course, Sean goes in to clean, but he’s very honest - they all are. Alex is touchy about private spaces - I don’t think he’s been in that room for years - not since I recovered. Hank’s been in a few times, but he always seems uncomfortable about it too.’ 

‘And if Beast wanted to steal medicine, he would do it from the infirmary,’ Erik added. ‘That is, if he’s not planning an elaborate take-over of the school where he gets you interned for abusing muscle relaxants, which I find very difficult to believe.’ Charles laughed. 

‘Yes, it doesn’t sound quite like him.’ Then he returned to the matter at hand. ‘That leaves the children.’ He could not believe that they were having this discussion - was it really necessary? Even contemplating that a child at his school might steal from him made him feel horrible. 

‘Remy seems a little light-fingered,’ Erik observed. 

‘Yes, he used to be a thief,’ Charles admitted. ‘But so was Ororo - she was a pickpocket in Cairo when we found her.’ 

‘But stealing for survival is not the same thing as this.’   
 ‘No - I can’t see it being either of them,’ Charles said. 

‘Is there anyone you _can_ see it being?’ He sighed. 

‘No. Is that too good-natured of me?’ Erik smiled, a melancholy light in his eye. 

‘That trust is admirable.’ 

‘But foolish, you mean.’ 

‘Someone needs to believe the best about people,’ Erik answered and pressed his shoulder. Charles smiled, oddly touched. 

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. It felt as if Erik had admitted something which he had long thought, but never quite been able to voice. They watched each other a moment longer, sensing each other’s content. Then Erik’s hand retreated, and Charles asked: ‘What shall we do?’ 

‘You could simply scan the minds of the students.’ 

‘No, I won’t do that,’ he said. ‘Out of the question. I’m not going to abuse my powers like that.’ Erik shrugged. 

‘In that case, our best option is to conduct a search,’ he said. ‘The sooner it turns up, the sooner we can drop any false suspicions.’ 

‘I’m sure it’ll turn out it’s just a mistake of some kind, or a joke,’ Charles said. ‘I’ll search my room too. Who knows, it might turn up.’ Then, taking on the role of the headmaster, he asked: ‘Can I trust you to search the dormitories? Ask Sean to help you. Alex can do the lower floors and the grounds. Don’t go too deep - respect the students’ privacy. And don’t let them know that you’re doing.’ Erik gave a short, military nod to show that he had acknowledged the orders. 

‘I’ll let them know.’ Charles smiled, briefly reflecting on their differences. Erik was all sharp angles and clipped answers, his body rigid and ready to pounce into action. Charles was the opposite; none of his power showed, and all people saw were soft hands and a kindly expression. The past years had marred him, but he still looked much like the ineffectual academic. He had still not grown into the role of headmaster, while Erik had yet to become pliant enough to fit into the mould of a teacher. On impulse, Charles reached out and took his hand, its skin irregularly healed after being cracked by cold and violence. He did not want him to change - for any role, or for any person. 

‘Is there anything else on your mind?’ Erik asked softly. Charles shrugged. 

‘Hank seems to think that he has the right to condemn us.’ Erik’s hand pressed his. 

‘What did he say to you?’ His voice had an edge, as if he were offering to beat up a bully. 

‘Not much this time,’ Charles said. ‘He just made it very clear that he disapproves. But last time there was a lot of talk about scandals and implying that I was unfit for teaching, and worrying about my sanity.’ 

‘My sanity is one thing, but yours...’ Erik said, as if he did not really blame Hank for assuming he was mad. Charles sighed. 

‘I keep forgetting how young he is,’ he admitted. ‘With the way he looks and with that intelligence of his... it’s so easy to assume that he’s older. But he’s so naive. I know that, eventually, he’ll learn to understand it, but now...’ Erik nodded. 

‘Perhaps he could do with seeing something other than the mansion.’ 

‘Well, yes. All he’s seen has been Harvard and that CIA base. Some more research, some other perspectives, would do him good. But...’ Charles faltered at the sight of Erik’s disapproving glance. ‘Erik, how can his appearance not be an issue?’ he exclaimed. 

‘Make it not an issue,’ Erik answered. ‘You’re right - he needs more experience. So find somewhere - a university or a lab or a hospital or whatever it is he wants to do - where they will take him anyway.’ 

‘You know that won’t be easy,’ Charles said guardedly. ‘Even if there’s a place for him, they might not want to employ him, if it gets the institution into trouble with the government...’ 

‘There must be somewhere,’ Erik answered. ‘There aren’t any rules against employing mutants. Not yet.’ Charles nodded, giving him right. 

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll suggest it to him. I couldn’t imagine the school without him, though. Would we really manage?’ 

‘We can’t know if we don’t try,’ Erik said. ‘And it’d benefit us too, if he could mature a little. Then he’d be indispensable.’ 

‘He’d have to promise to come back after a year or two.’ Charles started thinking about potential places where Hank might widen his horizons, wondering if he might be able to pull a few strings in Oxford, when there was a knock on the door. Erik drew their hands apart just when the door opened, but when Sean stepped in, he was still standing behind the desk. For a moment, he looked at them both, bewildered. 

‘Yes, Sean?’ Charles asked brightly. 

‘Eum. Yes. Have you seen Alex?’ Sean asked and pointed to his right, towards the kitchen. ‘Or... do either of you know anything about plumbing?’ 

‘Plumbing?’ Charles repeated. Now it was his turn to be bewildered. ‘Don’t know a thing. What’s happened?’ 

‘Something seems to have gone very wrong with the plumbing to the sink in the kitchen,’ he explained. ‘I think, at least. The whole place stinks.’ Charles and Erik looked at each other, and Erik rolled his eyes. 

‘How difficult can it be?’ he asked and rounded the desk. Curious, Charles followed. Just as they went through the entrance-hall, Alex entered the house, carrying an assortment of sports gear. 

‘Oh, Alex!’ Sean called and waved his arms at him. ‘Something’s happened to the plumbing in the kitchen.’ 

‘Can’t it wait?’ Alex asked, nodding towards the equipment in his arms. 

‘Honestly, I don’t want that smell to spread,’ Sean answered. Alex sighed and put the stuff down. 

‘There was nothing wrong with the sink this morning,’ he observed as they continued towards the kitchen. 

‘There’s something wrong with it now,’ Sean said. ‘I was just going to make some coffee, and there it was. It’s almost cool.’ This last comment was for the benefit of Charles and Erik, it seemed, because he turned around to look at them when he said it. Charles could not help but smile at his boyish fascination at disgusting things. He would not be able to help with any plumbing, but it seemed like there would be a general congregation in the kitchen, and he did not want to miss out. 

When they reached the kitchen, they filed in, Sean leading the way, followed by Alex and then Charles, with Erik bringing up the rear. 

‘See what I mean?’ Sean said as he entered.

‘Ugh,’ Alex said and pinched his nose. ‘What crawled in here and died?’ 

The smell struck him just as he rolled into the kitchen. All the windows were thrown wide open, but he would not smell any fresh air. In an attempt to shut out the nauseating reek, he took out his handkerchief and held it to his nose and mouth. How could this come from the plumbing of the sink? It was an overpowering stench, and seemed too complex to be from a faulty drain. It was the smell of human waste and rot and of something charred... 

‘Where the hell is this coming from?’ Alex muttered as he opened the doors to reveal the sink plumbing. Sean looked at the professor and shrugged, and then frowned. 

‘Are you alright, Erik?’ Charles turned his wheelchair, just as Erik grabbed the kitchen-bench for support. He had gone chalk-white. 

‘Erik?’ Charles said and reached out for him, but before he had time to touch him, he turned and ran from the room. ‘Erik!’ he called and wheeled after him. He saw him disappearing round a corner, towards the front entrance. 

‘Thinks he’s so tough,’ Alex snorted from inside the cupboard. ‘Can’t deal with a faulty drain.’ 

‘Shut up, Alex!’ Charles snapped. ‘Don’t take the drain apart - it’s not the problem.’ With those words, he left, and made for the old servants’ entrance. He sensed that Erik was still close, and as he reached the front of the house, he saw him, sitting on the steps to the house, his head in his hands. 

‘Erik?’ He did not react, but as he approached, Charles felt the metal in his chair shaking. Now, he could see how his friend fought to control himself, biting the back of his hand to keep himself from crying or being sick. He reached out and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Erik, it’s not real. Please...’ Erik’s hand fell, and he stared down with lost eyes, trying to calm his breathing. 

‘That smell,’ he choked. ‘That was how Auschwitz smelled.’ 

‘I know,’ Charles said weakly and pressed his shoulder. He had not even had to read his mind to understand it. Finding nothing else to do, he pulled him closer. Erik moved down to the next step and rested his head against Charles’ leg. He leaned down, put his arms around him the best he could and kissed his brow. After a long silence, Erik voiced the question: 

‘How could it be there?’ 

‘You know that,’ Charles said softly. ‘It wasn’t real. The smell was drawn from your memories. It was just an illusion.’ Erik raised his face and looked at him. Charles swallowed and finished: ‘Only one person in this mansion does such things.’ 

***

Even if Charles had forewarned Hank telepathically, he still looked shocked when he caught sight of Erik, pale and unsteady on his feet as they entered the upstairs lab. 

‘Did Alex bring Jason up?’ Charles asked, and Hank forcibly moved his attention to him. 

‘Yes - yes, he’s in the infirmary,’ he said and nodded towards the door between the rooms. ‘Eum, shall I prepare a bed for Erik as well?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ Erik snapped. 

‘I think he’ll be fine, Hank,’ Charles said. ‘But thank you - for your concern.’ Then he turned to Erik. ‘Will you be alright waiting here?’ After such a shock, a lab did not seem like the best place for someone with traumatic experiences of medical science. Despite that, Erik nodded and did not object when Charles did not let go of his elbow until he sat down. ‘If there’s anything, just... _think_ ,’ he said and let go of him. ‘I’ll hear you.’ Erik nodded, eyes closed. Charles turned to Hank. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ 

‘What exactly happened?’ Hank asked and opened the door for him. 

‘Jason made an illusion, confined to one room. I’ve never known him to be able to do that,’ he explained. 

‘Whatever it was, it shook Erik pretty badly,’ Hank observed. Charles refrained from answering. They rounded the screen in front of one of the beds. Jason was sitting on the edge of the bed, head hanging and eyes on the floor. 

‘Jason?’ Charles said and he looked up. His eyes grew in terror and suddenly he cowered, arms over his head. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it just happened, I’m sorry...’ 

‘Jason, it’s alright,’ he said, approached and reached out. Jason flinched away from his hand. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Charles intoned. _Jason, no one wants to harm you. I haven’t called you here to punish you._ For a moment he stayed as he was, shielding his face and hunching his shoulders. Then, slowly, his arms sank. ‘Good,’ Charles said softly. ‘You don’t have to be afraid.’ 

‘Why are you not afraid?’ It was barely a whisper, but there was no doubt he had said it. 

‘I have no reason to be,’ Charles said, perplexed. ‘I’m here to help you, Jason. Do you understand what’s happening?’ Jason closed his eyes, and the tears which had been filling them fell. ‘The illusion in the kitchen wasn’t meant to happen, was it?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re losing control of your powers. But we’ll find out why, and we’ll fix it. Stand up, and let me have a look at you.’ Jason obeyed, but slowly, and came to stand in front of him. Charles had expected him to not want to take his dress off, and even if he made no objection, he looked quite pitiful where he stood, only in his vest and underwear. A loss of control this violent made Charles wonder if there was a physical reason, but there was not one to be found. He let Jason dress again before he raised his hands to his head to concentrate on his mind. Already he could sense something. _Broken._ He went a little deeper, and for the shortest of moments, he plummeted through his psyche, not reading his thoughts but observing the structure of his mind. He passed through it, unhindered and unstopped. When he resurfaced, he drew breath, as if he had plunged into fathomless water. He had never felt such an untamed mind. 

‘We need to work on your shields again,’ he said. ‘As soon as possible, I think.’ Then, trying his upmost to sound collected and kind, he continued: ‘I’ll come back in a little while, and we’ll work on it. We’ll probably need tomorrow too. But for now, it’s probably for the best if you stayed here with Doctor McCoy. Get a bit of rest.’ He smiled, but Jason only watched him, his mismatched eyes mournful. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘It’s going to be alright.’ 

With those words, he left the shielded-off section of the infirmary, and Hank followed him. 

‘All his shields are gone,’ he explained under his breath. ‘Even the natural barriers between conscious and subconscious have been breached. I assume the business with Jean weakened them, and the strain he’s been under lately probably did the rest.’ 

‘Should I keep him here?’ Hank asked. 

‘Yes, just for tonight. It’s best to keep an eye on him, and if he starts making illusions when his guard his down, the fewer people around, the better.’ They had reached the door to the lab, and Hank approached it, but then stopped. 

‘Professor, before we go in there, I’d just like to...’ Charles sighed. 

‘Really, Hank, your sense of timing...’ 

‘No, Professor, I...’ He paused and composed himself. ‘I wanted to apologise.’ Charles looked up at him, surprised. ‘When I came to see you the other day... I said some horrible things, and I’ve really regretted them. I mean, not all of them. I stand by some of what I said. But... I was very angry, and I think I got carried away.’ Charles watched him, silently impressed with this sudden display of maturity. 

‘Apology accepted,’ he said and smiled. ‘Of course it is.’ 

‘It’s just the shock of it, you see,’ Hank continued and bit his finger awkwardly. 

‘I suppose it was a bit of a surprise,’ Charles conceded. ‘Will you apologise to Erik as well?’ Hank looked away. 

‘I don’t know if I could do that sincerely,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet.’ 

‘Well, would you at least be civil to him? He’s as much a permanent resident here as you are. You’ll have to learn to live with him.’ He nodded, swallowing his reluctance. 

‘I’ll try. But it’d be for your sake.’ 

‘I think that’s good enough for now,’ Charles said and patted him on the arm. ‘Let’s go and see to our next patient.’ 

Erik was sitting where they had left him, and was still looking quite pale. 

‘How are you feeling?’ Charles asked. Erik shook his head and waved a hand, as if showing it was not important. 

‘Why did she do it?’ he asked instead. ‘And how? She wasn’t able to do that before - an illusion confined to a room...’ 

‘There’s no shields in his mind,’ Charles said, momentarily considering how odd it was that they were discussing the same person but using different pronouns. ‘That means that no potential is inaccessible to him. Of course, his power becomes blunter, but it also becomes more diverse. It seems to me like he made the situation believable to us too - I did not understand that it was an illusion until I left the room. I realised that the situation was unrealistic, but I did not jump to the obvious, and correct, conclusion. That is more sophisticated than what he usually does.’ He turned to Hank. ‘If you perceive anything odd, try to remember that it might be an illusion. He’ll probably try to convince you that it’s real, but try to keep it in mind. From how it seems, he’s not doing it consciously.’ Hank nodded. 

‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’ 

‘Good man. Erik, are you feeling steady enough to move?’ 

‘Yes,’ he said, but still held onto the handle of the wheelchair for support. 

‘Eum, hope you feel better soon,’ Hank said very quickly, as if he did not he might lose the will to make amends. Erik did not answer, but only gave him an odd look. They left the lab and walked the length of the corridor before Charles stopped and turned to him. 

‘Erik...’ He did not object when he took his hand, but did not look at him. 

‘I’m alright,’ he said. 

‘No, you’re not alright,’ Charles answered, forcefully enough for it to become a correction. Erik sighed and looked away, as if the reply did not surprise him. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to be,’ he continued, softer now. ‘It’s one thing to think about it - it’s quite another to relive something so poignant as a smell.’ He pressed his hand, and Erik finally met his eye. ‘Come on,’ he urged him with a smile. ‘I’ve got an hour until I go back to take care of Jason. You look like you could use a lie-down, and perhaps a brandy.’ 

‘Doctor’s order?’ he asked ironically and moved his hand to his shoulder. 

‘Exactly.’ They looked at each other for a moment longer, and, knowing that no one was there to watch them, Charles turned his head and kissed the hand on his shoulder. It was an act of deeply felt tenderness, and when he looked up at Erik again, he saw him trying to keep his tears under control. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, or at least, Charles thought he did.


	17. Chapter 17

It was mid-February, but the cold of the winter still lingered. When Erik stepped outside, he half expected his breath to mist. Perhaps half an hour ago, it would have - it was that time in the morning when it had started getting warmer, and the temperature could leap suddenly up, only to drop minutes later. He did not linger, but set off at a run down the path that snaked its way in front of the house. 

As he found the pace, he reprimanded himself for neglecting his training so. He should not let himself become so comfortable, but in a place like this, it was all too easy to forget when managing to run at all was an achievement, and when gaining weight was a struggle. He wondered briefly if Charles had read that part of his mind, or if he thought that he was the only one who knew how it felt to fight a faulty body. Even if the odds were against him, he hoped Charles did not know - how much easier it would be if he were convinced of his strengths, and knew nothing of past weaknesses. The business with the illusion in the kitchen was days in the past, but Charles had not quite let it go yet, still watching him with worry when he thought that he would not notice, even if now when Jason’s shields were mended, it would not happen again. Charles seemed to underestimate Erik’s ability to file away disturbing events. Next to his mutant powers, it was his most important tool for survival. 

He traced the running route he had made up during that short week many years ago, which felt a lifetime away now. Concentrating, he sped up and, with a simple command of magnetism, stepped off the ground. The principle was so easy, yet it had taken him until the Cuban beach to put it into practice. He sensed the magnetic field of the planet in the way one feels the breeze on one’s skin. Manipulating that field was not much more difficult than creating a magnetic charge to command a piece of metal. He pushed himself up, far above the trees and the mansion, until he could see it all beneath his feet, this odd place which he had come to think of as home. Charles would be out of bed at this point - he would probably be dressing. 

He rose further up, and looked over the lands beneath him. Was the Brotherhood there somewhere - close or far away? He wondered what had made them stop their sudden activity. Perhaps Mystique had not betrayed him after all. Yet she had disobeyed him, by not putting a stop to the Brotherhood. Was it his creation, or Shaw’s, or did it meet on a twisted middle-ground? However much he wanted to stop them, he did not want to come close to those people. The contentment he felt in this place was still alien to him, but all the same he cherished it, and as long as his old allies stayed away, he would not approach them again. 

It was time to get back. He sank slowly, letting the magnetic force around him become one with that of the earth. When it was almost too weak to hold him up, he let it go completely and leapt out of the air. He landed in a crouch, stretching out a hand to steady himself. Something cold in the grass touched his fingers. He picked it up and stood, examining the object - a brown glass jar, the remains of a label ruined in the dew. Still, there was no doubt what it was. With new purpose, he steered his steps towards the mansion. 

***

The house was just waking up when Charles came downstairs. The smell of breakfast spread through the corridors, and instead of going to his study, as he had first planned, he headed towards the kitchen. If he could not help with the cooking, he could at least look in on them briefly. He knew from previous experience that they did not particularly like him settling there, but whether it was that they found he was in the way or that they felt he was watching them, he did not know. Occasionally, he was afraid that Alex and Sean, who helped with the students but did no actual teaching, would feel reduced to staff. He hoped that they did not think he was inspecting their work, but that they understood his friendly intentions, and his need to feel a part of the everyday running of the household. 

As he passed down the corridor, he noticed that the door to the drawing room was half open. He approached, planning to close it for neatness’ sake, but before doing so glanced inside. There was someone in there, lying on the couch - a girl. It was odd, he reflected, because the students tended not to be up this early. When he opened the door properly and approached, he recognised the bob and the black dress with coloured stripes. 

‘Susanna?’ 

But he knew, even then. Not by the way one of her legs was bent over the edge of the sofa, or by the limpness of her fingers. Not by her staring eyes or her cold cheeks. Not by the pulse impossible to find, or the breath no longer drawn. She had fallen silent. Her mind was gone. 

He stared down at her, unable to look away from her glazed eyes. His throat constricted, but he could not cry. Even when he told himself that he should call for help, he did not. He simply stayed there, frozen. 

Then suddenly: 

‘Charles!’ Erik’s call from the corridor was one of triumph, and the voices of the others joined it.

‘I heard him come down!’ 

‘In here, I think.’ 

‘Professor, guess what?’ The happy sounds were cut short. Charles forced his gaze away and looked over his shoulder, at the mutants watching him and the girl in sudden horror. 

***

Someone - Charles did not know who - took control over the situation immediately. A few minutes later, they assembled in his study and sat in silence. Someone had pushed a cup of tea into Charles’ hands, but he could not bring himself to taste it. The heat through the china, was, if not comforting, at least dulling. He was aware of the others sitting around him, watching him with... what was it? Pity? Anticipation? He snapped awake suddenly - of course, he was in charge. They were waiting for him to act, but were too polite or worried to prompt him. He drew a long, trembling breath to steady himself. 

‘Right,’ he said, trying out his voice. It was steadier than he had expected it to be. ‘What has been done?’ 

‘I’ve moved the bo... Susanna,’ Hank said, sounding as shaken as he looked. ‘The kids are still in their dormitories - Alex persuaded them to stay there.’ 

‘You didn’t mention what’s... happened?’ Alex shook his head. 

‘It didn’t seem right.’ 

‘Good.’ Charles’ eyes fixed on the object placed in front of him. He picked up the glass jar and felt the familiar shape of it. He wished he could crush it. The implication it bore seemed already to cut into his skin. Swiftly, he put it down. ‘Right. Alex, Sean, Erik - take the children down to breakfast. After that, we keep them there - we need to break the news. All of us will be there. Hank, the basement lab should be cold enough to keep the body until...’ He trailed off.’ Hank looked uncertain. 

‘Do you want me to perform a postmortem?’ Charles nodded. ‘Do we actually have the legal rights to do that? And what if her family...?’ 

‘We need to know,’ he simply answered. ‘A child has died at my school. - we need to be certain how that happened. I’m sorry to ask it of you, but it’s necessary. Especially as...’ He looked at the pill jar again, momentarily frozen by guilt. Then he forced it down below his shields - there was no time for that now. ‘But you’ll have to be at the assembly too, so it’ll have to wait until the evening, or even tomorrow. After the assembly, I want you, Sean and Erik to stay with the children. No lessons today. Keep them occupied, take them on walks, don’t leave them unattended. If they want to talk, you must all be there for them.’ 

‘What if they ask about details?’ Sean asked. ‘Because we’re... we’re assuming...’ 

Charles was not certain how he mustered enough calm to be able to say it. 

‘It seems most likely that this is a suicide.’ A stunned silence sank over them. Even if they had all thought it, the empty jar of pills being enough to convince them, it became more disturbing when it was articulated. ‘We’re not telling the children that - not before we’ve had time to investigate this situation further.’ Then he continued the instructions. ‘Alex, we’re leaving after the assembly - we need to go and see Susanna’s mother.’ 

Alex nodded and rose, and along with Sean and Hank, he left. Erik rose too, but lingered. When the others were out of the room, he reached down and took his hands. Charles pressed his, grateful for the short moment of intimacy. 

‘How long will you be gone?’ he asked quietly. 

‘Most of the day,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a long drive.’ Erik nodded, swallowing disappointment. 

‘I’ll see you when you get back,’ he said finally and rose. He let go of one of his hands, but raised the other to his lips. The kiss he planted on the back of his hand was drawn-out, almost theatrical in its clarity. Charles pulled down their intertwined hands and mirrored his gesture, a small show of affection when kissing seemed inappropriate. Without another word, Erik turned on his heel and left. 

***

It was getting dark when the car stopped in the driveway in front of the mansion. Breaking the news to Susanna’s mother had taken longer than Charles had expected, but once he was there in that cramped little house, where he could move only with difficult, he had felt the need to remain and watch the disbelief slowly turning into grief. He had even stayed with her as she called around to tell family and friends of her daughter’s sudden death. The whole situation felt absurd - he sat holding her hand, dry and cracked with dishwater, as he listened to how little by little, she found the right phrases to explain what had happened, so that every phone call became more like the next. There were not many names in her address book, but it took hours. Alex had obviously felt redundant, and except fixing lunch and coffee, he wandered around outside, ostensively guarding the car. 

As Alex pushed him around the grounds to the tradesman’s entrance, Charles realised that he had never before been the bearer of such bad news before. He had been taught on paper how to do it years ago when he trained to be a doctor, but there had never been an actual incident where he had had to explain the death of a relative to anyone. Of course, there had been little of an explanation in the case of Susanna’s mother. Even if he had promised himself to be honest, he had not been able to make himself tell her the cause of death. When she had asked, he said that they did not know yet. It was easier for everyone that way, at least for now. 

When they entered the house, Charles could feel the confusion and grief pressing in on him. Alex stalked off, but with all those minds around his, he did not feel alone. He stayed where he was for a long while, trying to figure out what to do. Then a particularly sharp thought found him, so frenzied and so lost that it cut through him. Locating it, he steered towards the lift. 

It had come from one of the dormitories, and when he opened the door, its source was obvious. Betsy was lying fully clothed on her bed, a soft toy in the shape of an elephant in her arms. Her crying was so restrained that there were barely any sobs, but her shoulders shook and her face was buried in the pillow. She must have slipped away, despite his instructions to keep all the children in one place. Still, she was in no danger - she only needed time for herself. As Charles approached, he reflected that even if he had known that she had been Susanna’s best friend, it was not until now that he had grasped it properly. 

‘Betsy,’ he said softly, stopping by the bed. She looked up and, suddenly realising who it was, sat up and tried to wipe the tears off her cheeks. 

‘Professor, I’m sorry... I...’ 

‘Hush,’ he said and touched her arm. ‘Don’t apologise. It’s alright.’ She stayed like she was for a moment, and then her body shook with another sob. Helplessly, she lay down again, hugging her soft toy. All Charles could do was to stroke her hair and say kind, unimportant things. Feeling her body shaking gave the events a new clarity. The grief of the mother had been so different from the grief of the friend, but still as violent and exposed. Finally, Betsy managed to speak. 

‘She was the first person to be my friend,’ she whispered. ‘She was the first person who wasn’t afraid of that I could read people’s thoughts, and I never told her how much I cared for her... We only talked about stupid, silly things, never important things...’ She stifled another sob with her hand. 

‘Oh, Betsy,’ he said, feeling compassion well up in his chest. There was nothing he could say, he knew - all words were wasted. He stayed with her, stroking her hair and making compassionate noises. Still, his attention wandered, and he glanced at the bedside table of the bed next to Betsy’s. There was a frame on it, and even at this angle, he could see that the photograph was of the same woman he had spent the day comforting. On impulse, he reached out and opened the bedside-table drawer. Betsy did not notice how he slipped his hand into it and retrieved a red notebook with a pen tied to it with a string. There were things one could always be sure of with sixteen-year old girls, it seemed. Carefully, he closed the drawer again and slipped the diary into his chair. Then he returned his attentions to Betsy. When her sobbing momentarily subsided, he offered her a handkerchief and said: 

‘You should go down to the others. They’re in the dining room.’ She sat up and accepted the handkerchief, while at the same time managing to look defiant. 

‘I don’t want to,’ she explained. He pressed her hand compassionately. 

‘I know it feels horrible, but you can’t cry all the time. It’ll eat you from inside. You need the distraction.’ She hung her head, but nodded. ‘Good girl.’ 

He took her with her in the lift, and the novelty of that experience seemed to affect her even now. Charles walked her to the door, but did not follow her inside. He felt like crying, and desperately did not want to. Instead, he picked up on his craving for tea, and went to the kitchen. He could not help thinking of Susanna and her tea-tray. She had happily given of her time to... no, not to act as his maid. She had not done it because of any obligation, but because she had wanted to, because she had cared. He had always taken her for granted, never reflecting twice on her efforts. Now he realised that he had never apologised after the time he had snapped at her, shortly after his and Erik’s first kiss when he had been so irritable. He could not help but wonder, even if it had been only that one time, if she had let go of it soon, or if the hurt had lingered. That familiar guilt of the things which should have been done or should have been atoned beset him. Too late now, he thought bleakly, and it made his stomach lurch. At once he felt a strong longing for Erik - he needed to tell him all those things he kept putting off saying. Even if it was just, I love you, he seemed not to be able to say it enough times. If anything happened to either of them, it would still feel like they had wasted their time. 

No, he should not think like that. He needed some distraction. His tea-making skills were out of practice, and it seemed like a fair challenge. If he stretched, he could touch the handle of the kettle with his finger-tips. After a few tries, he managed to budge it closer and grabbed it. He put it on his knee and wheeled over to the sink, put the kettle on it and reached for the tap. There were still several inches between his fingers and the handle. Making sure to lock the wheels, he pushed himself up as far as he could on one arm and stretched with the other. His fingers raked at thin air first, then joined briefly with the handle, only long enough that he became aware of the cold of the metal. His other arm was shaking with exertion - he was about to topple. Charles returned himself to the chair heavily, frustrated at his failure. He had an urge to kick something, and as an alternative, took the kettle and threw it. 

‘Damn it all!’ he shouted as it clattered against the tiles. Swallowing a sob, he rested his head in his hands. It was all proving too much. 

‘Eum, Professor?’ He looked up, startled. Sean was in the doorway, as if he was not certain whether to enter or leave, pretending not to have seen anything. They stared at each other in embarrassed silence, and then Sean gestured to the kettle on the floor. ‘Would you like a hand?’ Charles sighed. 

‘Yes, please, Sean,’ he said. Sean entered and picked up the kettle. They did not speak as he filled it up with water and put it on the stove. Gradually, Charles became aware of the redness around Sean’s eyes, and the tenseness of his jaw. ‘How are you?’ he said, but did not pronounce it as a question. Sean shrugged, trying to look brave. They were silent for a while.

‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’ he asked finally. Charles sighed. 

‘It’s very hard to say, Sean,’ he said slowly. ‘Sometimes, the pain of letting go seems preferable to the pain of living.’ 

‘But she was sixteen,’ he exclaimed. ‘Just sixteen...’ It was only three years younger than he was, but to a nineteen-year-old, a sixteen-year-old seemed a child. 

‘There is no way we can ever know precisely why,’ Charles sighed. Sean looked out on the darkness of the grounds and swallowed. 

‘She was such a sweet girl, Susanna. Always really friendly. I just can’t understand it.’ He trailed off and looked down at his feet. There were tears in his eyes. Charles tried to figure out how to comfort him, but before he had found an appropriate way, the kettle whistled, and Sean turned his attention to it. As he found the teapot and made the tea, they did not speak. 

‘Right,’ Sean said when he left the tea to brew. ‘I’ll fix a tray and put it in your study...’ Charles raised a hand. 

‘No, that won’t be necessary, Sean,’ he told him. ‘Let’s drink it here. Besides, I wouldn’t mind the company.’ Sean looked momentarily glad; he did not seem particularly keen on being on his own either. They drank their tea in silence. Charles started feeling himself relax and exhaustion catch up with him. Sean was obviously thinking something through, and when Charles refilled their cups, he asked: 

‘Who’s your girlfriend?’ Charles looked at him in surprise. He had really not expected that, and did not know what to answer. ‘I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there’s someone.’ 

‘I don’t know if it’d be fair to talk about it,’ Charles said carefully. ‘It’s not really... official.’ Sean threw his hands out and actually smiled. 

‘Prof, I’m cool with the whole out-of-wedlock thing,’ he said. ‘We all are.’ 

‘Much appreciated,’ Charles answered, ‘although it’s not quite that simple.’ Sean waited for him to elaborate, but when he did not, he simply shrugged. 

‘I just think love’s good for you, man. I mean, Professor.’ Charles laughed at that, and then realised that there was a chance that he would start crying after all. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, comforted by Sean’s misinformed acceptance. They finished their tea in a less oppressive silence, as if they could both sense the mourning minds beyond the kitchen walls. 

***

The evening was as busy as the day. Keeping the children company left no time to see Erik in private. All they had exchanged since Charles’ return were a few looks across the room. It was not until after the children had started going to bed and Charles had retired to his room that they had an opportunity, and Erik slipped into his room. 

‘I thought you might like some company,’ he said, clutching the dressing-gown around himself. There was something endearing in how he pretended that this was simply a casual idea, rather than something they had waited for since the morning. 

‘I’d like nothing better right now,’ Charles admitted. Erik shed his dressing-gown and climbed into the bed ( _his side of the bed_ ), watching him but not yet touching him. Finally, Charles averted his glance and leaned back against the bed-board with a sigh. 

‘It’s such an awful thing,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it. A student - dead. At my school. And a suicide at that...’ 

‘You think she did kill herself, then?’ Erik asked. His forwardness startled Charles. 

‘Well, it seems like the most likely scenario.’ 

‘Assuming that there is a connection between her death and the missing pills.’ 

‘You found the jar about the same time as I discovered the body,’ Charles reminded him. 

‘And the label?’ 

‘It rained during the night - it’s quite likely that it disappeared in that.’ Erik shifted in the bed, moving a little closer and leaning back, mirroring Charles’ pose. Charles would rather not be having this conversation, but as so often, Erik had found those nibbling doubts and pulled them into the sharp light of reason for examination. 

‘What about a suicide note?’ he asked. ‘There wasn’t one where she was found.’ 

‘They’re not as common as people think,’ Charles explained. ‘I guess the really strange thing is that you found the pill jar outside, while Susanna was inside.’ 

‘And it would have been impossible to throw it that far,’ Erik added. ‘Would it have been possible for her to have taken the pills outside and then have gone inside?’ 

‘I have no idea how long it would have taken for the medicine to affect her, but it would have been a large dose,’ Charles said. ‘There were no unlocked doors, and it seems unlikely that she would have climbed out through a window and then in, especially in the state she would have been in. Besides, I don’t think her clothes would have had time to dry on her, but they were not damp.’ They were silent for a time. 

‘In that case, she must have dumped the jar earlier,’ Erik concluded. ‘It looked like it could have been there longer than just a few hours, although it’s hard to tell.’ 

‘And what of the pills?’ He shrugged. 

‘She may have put then in an envelope, or just in a pocket. Perhaps transferred them to another jar. If she realised that it was incriminating, she would want to get rid of it. We were looking for the jar, not the pills.’ 

‘But the children didn’t know that you searched the dormitories, surely?’ Erik shook his head. 

‘She could have figured it out. Perhaps Betsy sensed it and mentioned it to her.’ Charles wrapped his arms around himself. 

‘I can’t see Susanna as a thief,’ he said. ‘That she might have gone against my trust...’ 

‘She was probably the student who had most to do with you,’ Erik pointed out, not unkindly. ‘She may have felt that she had access to your sphere in another way than the other students. Couldn’t that have made the trespass easier...?’ But Charles shook his head. 

‘No - I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Once she looked at the photographs I keep in the study, just for a moment, and I told her off. It was obvious that she understood that she had crossed a line. I can’t see her having done it again, in any way. Besides, she has never once entered my room. As far as I know, none of the children have.’ 

‘But if she had the pills, she must have taken them from you,’ Erik said. 

‘Yes, you’re right - unfortunately,’ Charles answered with a sigh. ‘It’s just difficult to accept. Besides, how did she know that she’d find something here? Why not take something from the lab or the infirmary?’ 

‘Hank keeps them locked,’ Erik reminded him. ‘Quite possibly for this very reason. The doors and the cupboard in here were open. Besides, it’s not a leap of the imagination that a man in a wheelchair takes some form of medication, especially not the kind which is lethal in high doses.’

‘Everything is lethal in high doses - plenty of the medicines in there are worse,’ Charles answered, but regretted his harsh tone at once. He did not dare to say “sorry”, but reached out and took Erik’s hand. He pressed it back, wordlessly assuring him. ‘You don’t believe it was suicide, do you?’ Erik paused. 

‘There’s too many things which seem off,’ he explained slowly, a crease deepening between his brows. ‘It seems at first at the obvious solution, but when you look closer, it does not quite... add up. But I don’t know what other solution there is.’ 

‘If we assume that that is the case, what would have happened? She took the pills from my cupboard, kept them hidden in some way during the search. Perhaps she moved them already then...’ 

‘Alex searched the grounds,’ Erik reminded him. 

‘He may have missed the jar, or she threw it away later,’ Charles shrugged. ‘Anyway, she waits, and then last evening, after everyone had gone to bed, she goes downstairs to the drawing-room and... swallows the pills.’ Erik considered this. 

‘It must have difficult, swallowing that many pills without water,’ he mused. ‘I’m sure I didn’t see a glass.’ 

‘No, there wasn’t one,’ Charles agreed. ‘But she may have left the glass in the kitchen or drunk from a tap, and then gone to lie down.’ 

‘And she was still wearing day-clothes...’ 

‘Would you like to die in your pyjamas?’ Charles asked. ‘She may have gone to bed without changing, so that she could get up when everyone else had fallen asleep, or simply not gone to bed.’ Erik cocked his head to show that it was a fair point. Then he frowned. 

‘But if she were suicidal, wouldn’t you have sensed it?’ 

‘Yes...’ Charles admitted. This was probably the worst part. ‘Violent emotion is always loud, but fears of death, thoughts of suicide... they’re the loudest. It’s not just the conscious mind making noise, but the deepest survival instinct screaming. I should have noticed it.’ 

‘But if you didn’t...’ He shrugged helplessly. 

‘She may have found a way not to project it, although how I do not know,’ Charles suggested. ‘Or for that matter, it may have been such a sudden decision that there was no time for me to feel it.’ 

‘But she stole the pills days before,’ Erik argued. ‘That implies premeditation...’ 

‘Yes, it does rather,’ Charles agreed, as his mind wandered back to that day when Susanna had accidentally burned his arm, and to Hank’s question. _Professor, is Susanna alright?_

‘Hank noticed something was wrong,’ he said. ‘He said he thought Susanna seemed “distracted”, and I thought it was just because she’d had a turn, with that illusion and that she’d burned me, so I just waved it away...’ Erik pressed his hand. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said quietly. 

‘Erik, of course it’s my fault,’ Charles exclaimed. ‘When someone stole my medicine, I assumed someone was just playing silly-beggars. I never considered that _this_... And as you said yourself, I should have sensed it...’ 

‘We are assuming that there was something to be sensed,’ Erik pointed out. ‘“Distracted” is not synonymous with “suicidally depressed”.’ 

‘I’m afraid there was _something_ to be sensed,’ he sighed and let go of his hand. ‘On my desk.’ Erik got up and went to the desk, then returned with the diary Charles had retrieved from Susanna’s drawers. He sat on the side of the bed and leafed through the pages filled with observations of the life at the school (“During chemistry Dr M. almost set fire to his fur. We all tried not to laugh”) and the endearing sentiments (“I’m worried about the professor. They say it’s nothing, but Betsy says they’re lying. I hope he gets well soon. I miss making his tea.”) until he reached the last entry, dated 13 February. Charles read it over his shoulder.

> Dear Diary,  
> I think I’m going mad. I keep seeing things, and even if they can’t and shouldn’t be there, they are. I know I should talk to the professor about it and he’d fix me, but I’m so scared. Besides, I don’t know how to explain it. Perhaps he’d send me away, and I never want to leave this place. 

> I’m probably just overreacting. 

Charles looked away from the page and put a hand to his mouth. He could not keep the tears away anymore. Erik put the diary on the bedside table and moved closer.

‘If only she’d talked to me,’ he whispered as Erik embraced him. ‘I’d have been able to help. I’d never have sent her away.’ 

‘If you had known, you would have done everything in your power to help her,’ Erik said, rubbing his back. ‘But she did not tell you, and you cannot be held accountable.’ Charles shook his head. 

‘It doesn’t change anything.’ They drew apart again, and Erik looked at the entry again.

‘It was dated the thirteenth,’ he observed. ‘The medicine went missing on the twelfth.’ 

‘Yes?’ Charles asked. 

‘Does “I’m probably just overreacting” sound like someone who is planning suicide?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t she have mentioned the pills?’ 

‘It would mean admitting - to her diary, to herself - what she was planning,’ Charles suggested. ‘She may have been in denial. Besides, by what she describes... she seems to have had hallucinations. She may not have known what she was doing some of the time.’ Erik sighed, got up and put the diary back on the desk. 

‘Poor girl.’ He lingered at the desk for a moment, as if paying his respects to the notebook, and then returned to the bed. When he settled there again, Charles reached out and took both his hands. There was so much he wanted to say, too much, and the words got stuck in his throat. Erik did not seem to notice his struggle, but kissed him. ‘It’s been a long day. You need to sleep.’ Charles nodded. 

‘Will you stay?’ Erik smiled, not a true smile but one tinged with worry. 

‘I always stay,’ he said, as if reminding him. 

‘Of course,’ Charles said and looked away. When he had spoken, he had enquired if Erik would stay the night, but he wished - hoped - Erik had answered another, bigger question. _But how can anyone promise something like that with any certainty?_

***

The morning routine the following day did not come naturally. It seemed a small miracle that they managed to fix breakfast for the children. The teachers’ breakfast got burned, and when the meal was finally done, it consisted only of toast and burned eggs. Charles took over Hank’s classes, but however much he tried to give teaching his full attention, he could not help thinking of the reason why he was standing in for Hank; the basement lab and the metal table, the rolling tape recorder and the small body, its inner secrets exposed under the knife. He shielded his mind, worried that he might accidentally read Hank’s thoughts and see through his eyes. His own imagination was bad enough. 

Half-way through the second morning lesson, there was a knock on the door of his study. 

‘Come!’ The door opened, but no one stepped in. When he looked up, he saw Hank there, Erik, Alex and Sean behind him. A meaningful look passed between them all, and Charles turned to his class. ‘I think we’ll leave it at that,’ he said and smiled. ‘Would you please do exercises, hm, seventeen to twenty-three until Wednesday?’ 

A murmur of “yes, Professor” and “thank you, Professor” was heard over the rustle of books and papers being collected. As the students, downcast and confused, filed out, he smiled and nodded at them, calling each by name. When Jean, who was last to leave, passed, she stretched out her hand towards him, a pleading look on her face. He took it and pressed it briefly, sending a spark of comfort into her mind. 

‘See you in the afternoon, Jean,’ he said and watched her scamper after Jason, who just disappeared out of the door. When they were out of sight, the congregation in the corridor entered, the others walking respectfully after Hank, who carried a set of notes in his hands. There was something odd about seeing his huge form shaking at the knees. 

‘I’m done,’ he said and waved the notes. ‘I... Would you mind if I sat down, Professor?’ 

‘You don’t have to ask permission,’ Charles answered and gestured for him to take a seat. ‘The rest of you, too.’ They all sat down, taking the chairs the students had sat on a moment ago to form a rough circle. Turning to the Beast, Charles said: ‘Hank, if you don’t feel like doing this now...’ 

‘No, Professor, I don’t think it can wait,’ he said, urgency under the slight tremble in his voice. Charles nodded solemnly. 

‘Please.’ Hank pulled his claws through the fur on his head and began.

‘First, I think we should discard all previous theories. Toxicology will take a few days, but I can say for certain that Susanna did not die from an overdose of pills.’ Charles’ eyebrows shot up in surprise; he had not expected that. 

‘Then what was the cause of death?’ Hank swallowed. 

‘This is the distressing bit,’ he explained. He looked like he would rather throw the notes aside and run, but he kept his calm and looked Charles in the eye, as if that gave him some comfort. ‘She died of a massive bleeding of the brain. It seems like one artery gave out first, and the pressure caused more to rupture.’ 

Charles’ jaw tensed, relief and guilt for that relief mixing. The others watched him, waiting for him to speak. 

‘It would have been quick,’ he said finally. ‘She wouldn’t have had time to feel any pain.’ It felt like cold comfort. 

‘Can that happen to a sixteen-year-old, just like that?’ Sean asked, terrified. 

‘It’s quite uncommon,’ Hank explained, and Charles added: 

‘There must have been a congenital defect - a weakened artery that ruptured.’ 

‘But there wasn’t,’ Hank interjected. Charles turned and stared at him. ‘There wasn’t any _reason_ ,’ he explained, anguish in his voice. ‘No congenital defects, nothing.’ 

‘Then what happened? Did someone bang her across the head?’ Alex wondered, looking as disturbed as Charles felt. 

‘There wasn’t any sign of external trauma, so no,’ Hank said. A deadly silence fell. 

‘What could have caused such a thing?’ Erik asked, looking at Charles. He did not meet his gaze. The answer was so obvious, but of all the solutions, this was among the worst. _Please, no more betrayal..._ But stalling for time would not make it go away, and letting it go would not bring her back to life, or make the guilty innocent. 

‘The reason wasn’t physical,’ he said. ‘Not at first.’ The others waited for him to continue, but instead he turned around and looked out of the French windows. He cast his thoughts out around the mansion, searching through the minds within it until he hit upon the right one. ‘Erik, go to the front lawn. Fetch Jason.’ Erik rose, but did not move. 

‘Why?’ he asked. Charles looked up fiercely. 

‘Fetch Jason,’ he intoned. ‘Don’t believe a thing you see on the way.’ Erik looked at him, frustration mixing with worry, but then nodded and left. The others exchanged looks, but none of them seemed to dare to ask what was going on. As they waited, Charles moved to behind the desk. He must not surrender to the realisation, lest the grief of it overpower him. _Only grief?_ he asked himself as he straightened his pens. _No - anger too. But I can’t give into it._

The door opened; there was Erik, his hand resting on Jason’s shoulder. He lead him forward and well in front of the desk, he let go of him and withdrew to the side, his face closed. 

The child looked so small where he stood, hands clasped and eyes willingly turned towards the professor. It was the look of an innocent. Charles wondered if, behind that faint smile, he was laughing at him. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach. 

He checked himself and answered the smile. 

‘How are you, Jason?’ he said. ‘Are you feeling better than you did last week?’ 

‘It’s all much better, Professor.’ Each word was pronounced so carefully that he seemed almost like a wind-up doll, learning to speak. 

‘And your powers?’ Charles asked casually. ‘Are you feeling in control of them?’ 

‘Perfectly,’ Jason enunciated, and managed to keep the pitch of his voice steady. Never had the voice of a child sounded so chilling. 

‘You can sense people’s fears, can’t you?’ Charles asked. Jason’s smile slipped a fraction, and he did not answer, aware of his teachers watching him. ‘What was Susanna scared of?’ he continued. Jason stared at him, but the look of confusion he attempted did not manifest. ‘Was it what you made her see that time you scared her in my office? Was it the same thing you made her see the night before last?’ He broke off, his voice straining. Erik took a step towards him, but did not interfere. Jason watched him with mismatched eyes. 

‘Not quite the same,’ he said finally and smiled, just as innocently as when he had when he entered. 

‘But... what’s going on?’ Sean said. Charles did not look away from his student. 

‘Tell them, Jason - tell them what you did.’ Jason straightened his back and raised his chin defiantly. 

‘I just did what you told me to do,’ he explained, meeting the professor’s eye. ‘I was in control. I wanted to see what I could do.’ 

‘So you started making illusions for her?’ he asked. ‘To see how far you could push it?’ 

‘I just wanted to try.’ 

‘To make her think she was going insane?’ Charles exclaimed. ‘To see how far you could twist her mind before it snapped?’ 

‘I was right,’ Jason said with a shrug. 

‘“Right”?’ Charles repeated, voice trembling with anger. ‘Right about that you could kill someone with an illusion? Because that was what happened, wasn’t it?’ 

‘I thought it’d be like that,’ Jason explained. ‘The mind is more important than the body, so if the mind dies, the body dies too. Although I suppose that if I’d gone on much longer, she would have gone mad.’ 

Charles leaned back, letting out a shaking breath. That was a confession, he reflected. It was final and unchangeable. 

‘Why Susanna?’ Jason shrugged and answered: 

‘Why not?’ 

‘So it was just an arbitrary choice.’ 

‘She wasn’t particularly powerful.’ 

‘She was a living human being!’ Charles shouted. Erik grabbed his shoulder to calm him. The contact made him feel his own sudden hatred mirrored in him. Jason simply smiled and looked from one to the other. 

‘I know you’d never hurt me,’ he explained. ‘Not because you’re too kind, as you’re not actually that kind. You’re just too scared. You think I’d try to scare _him_ -’ he looked at Erik ‘-because there is so much fear in him, but you’re much more scared than he is. You just don’t have the sense to admit that you’re scared of _me_.’

And suddenly Charles was small enough to hide in the shadows, pressed against the door-post. He needed to get out of sight - they were coming his way. Their minds seemed like signal fires in the silence of the big mansion. He could hear them. His stepfather was screaming (‘you English cow, you frigid bitch’, worse words, which Charles did not know the meaning of yet), his mother was sobbing (‘please, please, please’). If he leaned out, he could see them down the corridor. He held her by the hair, making her bent forward and half-run as he pulled her along. As they passed, Charles shrunk back into the shadows, but for an instant, her half-obscured face turned towards him, and a glance passed between them. _If only I could call out to him, but he’s just a child. Kurt will hurt him too, and he’s all I’ve got, that strange little boy who has Brian’s eyes, before they were destroyed (God, just let go of me,_ please _!) No, keep silent, for Charley’s sake..._ Had she meant for him to hear it? Had his stepfather noticed him there? His grip around her hair twisted and she fell onto the floor, his fist rose... 

_It’s not real anymore! I am no longer a child - I have put away childish things, childish fears. I am stronger than this._

This amalgam of true memories, forged together in the illusion, shattered. He was in his chair, in his study, Erik’s hand on his shoulder, Jason’s eyes staring at him. They grew in surprise, just enough for him to notice. Somewhere between his own mind and Jason’s he found the answer - his fear was helplessness. He would not give into it now. 

‘Tell me it was an accident,’ he said, hoping for one last redeeming point. ‘Jason, tell me you lost control.’ Jason simply looked at him. The silence was enough. ‘What did you want to prove? Your usefulness? Or your ruthlessness?’ 

‘I showed you what I can do,’ Jason said. 

‘I’ve seen what you can do!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘You can do wonderful things - good things. But killing...’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘Were you going to tell me about it? After all, you found a way to cover it up.’ Jason looked away briefly, as if he knew it had been a mistake. ‘Did you get the idea that day in the office, when you saw how much it all distressed Susanna? Was that when you realised how easy it would be to make us all believe she had committed suicide? A jar of medicine goes missing, an impressionable young girl dies - it seems an opened-and-closed case, at first glance.’ He thought back and cursed himself. ‘You simply had the jar in your pocket all that time, didn’t you? The day the dormitories were searched, you were in the infirmary - the last place we’d look for a lost jar of medicine.’ Considering it was a plan thought up when his mind had been in complete disorder, it was surprisingly well-structured, but it had been put into action when he had been accountable. It was ironic, he reflected, that he had been inside his mind at the time when he had thought it all out. 

‘I thought you’d notice,’ Jason admitted earnestly. ‘I don’t see why you didn’t just read my mind.’ 

‘Out of respect!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘I refuse to abuse my powers. I thought I had taught you that...’ Erik pressed his shoulder, and he broke off, trying to calm himself. 

‘But if we have these powers, why shouldn’t we use them?’ Jason asked. ‘Susanna was an experiment. I know what I can do now.’ Charles closed his eyes. 

‘You meant to do it, then?’ he said. Jason stamped his foot. 

‘Yes, I did, and I know how easy it is now! We don’t have to be afraid anymore! I could protect us. I could punish those who hurt us.’ Charles looked at his student. 

‘Well then,’ he said. All it took was a moment and a thought, and Jason’s body froze. His eyes stared straight ahead and his lips remained slightly parted, as if he was about to say something. Charles kept part of his mind concentrated on keeping him in this stasis even as he turned to the others. 

‘Gentlemen,’ he said joylessly. ‘Jason won’t be able to hear us. We have a decision to make.’ They looked from Jason to Charles. No-one wanted to speak first. 

‘He... scared her to death?’ Sean said finally. 

‘Yes. I think he made Susanna believe she died in an illusion, and the shock did the rest.’ 

‘What do you propose we do, Professor?’ Hank asked. Charles sighed and clasped his hands. He remembered what he had said to Hank, that this was a sanctuary for all mutants, but that principle did not change how he felt. 

‘I do not want this child at my school,’ he said. ‘He killed another student. He cannot stay here.’ 

‘We can’t call in the authorities,’ Alex said. 

‘No, that’s out of the question,’ Charles sighed. ‘I’m afraid that legally, Susanna’s death will have to be assigned to natural causes. That is what we’ll tell her mother.’ 

‘And the other students?’ He wondered briefly if it was better to tell them outright or leave it unexplained. The truth was bad enough to make him hesitate, but perhaps speculation would make it worse. Before he had time to come to a conclusion, Erik spoke. 

‘What we tell the students has nothing to do with this. We must decide what to do with Jason. If she is not to stay here, then we must presumably send her home.’ 

‘There’s no other way, no,’ Charles said. That admission felt worse than he had imagined it would. 

‘And what do we tell the Strykers?’ Erik asked. 

‘That we can’t do anything for their son,’ Charles said. ‘That it’s no longer productive for him to be at the school.’ 

‘So we keep the truth from everyone?’ 

‘The Strykers are the last people I’d want to tell. If they thought him a threat, God knows what they’d do to him.’

‘But he _is_ dangerous,’ Sean said and nodded towards Jason. ‘He might kill again.’ 

‘And considering how much he hates his parents...’ Hank added. 

‘I could put up mental blocks to stop him using his powers, at least to that extent,’ Charles said. ‘They’d break down eventually, but it would probably take a year or so.’ 

‘What about the CIA?’ Erik asked. ‘If there was a deal with Stryker...’ 

‘It’ll simply be called off,’ Charles said. ‘I’ll make sure to confuse his memory of exactly where the mansion is located. Besides, he has no reason to reveal our location. This does not change the fact that his son is a mutant, and he would do anything to keep that information from leaking.’ He looked around to the others. ‘Are we all agreed?’ he asked. ‘That Jason is to be expelled and his powers temporarily blocked?’ Alex nodded. Sean looked away but nodded too. 

‘Yes,’ Hank admitted. 

‘Erik?’ Charles said, turning to his friend. He had expected him to contest him, but instead Erik answered: 

‘This was violence without reason. It is abhorrent. The punishment you suggest is the most fitting which can be dealt to a child.’ 

‘Even if you were adamant to keep him from his family?’ 

‘She harmed her own kind, Charles. She has forfeited her right to a place here.’ Charles bit his lip and looked at the frozen child. He had felt such love for him. Now it had been poisoned by anger and disappointment, and all that remained was the feeling of hopelessness. 

‘There must have been a reason,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Some mental disturbance I did not pick up on - something which made him think that it could be morally defendable to so such a thing...’ 

‘Perhaps she is simply the child of her father,’ Erik said. He was not able to shield the thought, _perhaps I am still Shaw’s._ ‘Charles, you cannot undo this. There is nothing to fix or cure. She is guilty of murder.’ 

‘Yes, it was murder,’ Charles agreed. Putting it into words gave it a grave finality. ‘You’d better leave us.’ 

There was something ceremonious about how they rose and nodded in parting. Erik went last, his hand lingering on Charles’ shoulder as far as his arm could reach. As he shut the door, Erik looked back at him, and they shared a glance of resigned accord. Then it closed behind him, and Charles sat in silence for a moment, gathering his thoughts. 

Slowly, he started releasing Jason, until he was conscious of the world around him, but could not yet move. Still he stayed at his desk, thinking. This past half year had made true difference for Jason - he had improved in so many ways. But now... Perhaps this was something new, or perhaps there had always been a vicious streak to his character. He had simply assumed that the way he read about wars for inspiration was a case of childish morbidness, or at worst because of the wounds he bore from home. Whatever the answer, Charles had failed. All he could do now, despite his own anger, despite Jason’s guilt, was to protect him the best he could from those who wanted to harm him. Jason would be safe for now, he told himself. He would leave a shred of his powers active, in an act of silent defiance against Stryker, simply to show him that his son was still a mutant, and would always remain that way. But there were other things which had to change, things which would give Jason’s father equal reason to harm him, even if he would break a promise by protecting him thus. Charles took a pair of scissors from the drawer and rounded the desk. 

Jason’s hair, reaching well below his shoulders, was soft against his hands. Carefully he gathered it together and held it in his left hand. His right hand took the scissors. A shard of the trust which had broken seemed to work itself into his heart, which was already pierced by the shattered pieces of his paternal love. 

‘I’m so sorry, Medea,’ he said and, bracing himself, raised the scissors. 

When they closed and scattered the locks onto the floor, Jason screamed.


	18. Chapter 18

Of all the children, Alex least expected to see Jean sitting alone. He was checking how the perennates had survived the winter when he saw her on the steps up to the terrace, watching the others play tag on the lawn. Alex approached cautiously. 

‘Hey.’ She looked up, but had evidently sensed him coming. Her face was unreadable. ‘You’re not joining in?’ he asked and cocked his head towards the game. 

‘No,’ she said with a shrug. Even if he was not particularly good at talking to people like this, he supposed that giving her the chance to vent was good, so he sat down beside her. They were silent for a long time. 

‘I heard about your best friend,’ Alex said finally. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Jean said. ‘I haven’t had time to feel what happened to Annie. Too many other things happening, I s’pose.’ Then she asked: ‘Did you know Susanna well?’ 

‘Yeah, she’d been here since very early.’ He sighed. ‘Damned waste.’ For once, cursing in front of a student did not seem inappropriate. 

‘I’m sorry I never got to know her,’ Jean said earnestly. Alex looked at her and took in the way that her face looked so open, and yet showed nothing. She was an unsettling child in a whole different way from the rest of them. 

‘Can’t be the best thing to happen when you start a new school,’ Alex said. 

‘The murder of a student, you mean?’ He looked at her sharply. 

‘Don’t spread that around,’ he said quietly. 

‘It’s difficult, keeping secrets from psychics,’ she said and smiled apologetically. Alex huffed and watched the other children. 

‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ he agreed, and remembered how the professor kept knowing things he had never told him. 

‘Mister Lehnsherr spoke to me about grief,’ Jean said after some time. 

‘Really? What did he say?’ 

‘That it’s actually a good thing,’ she said slowly, as if trying to recall his exact words. ‘That it’s... purifying, as long as you don’t let it turn into anger. But if it does that, he said, it becomes “more dangerous than anything”.’ Alex thought it through. 

‘Well, he’s right,’ he said. 

‘Because he knows,’ Jean added. 

‘You know, you shouldn’t read people’s minds without their permission,’ Alex said, but did not sound very reproachful. There was something about this girl which felt ancient, even if she herself was just a child. 

‘The professor’s teaching me,’ she explained. ‘It’s just a little difficult sometimes, to keep it all away.’ 

‘I can’t imagine how it is,’ Alex admitted. ‘I guess that if you happen to read someone’s mind, just don’t pass it on.’ She nodded and actually smiled. Then she turned back to the game, when Alex spotted Erik coming down the path. Scott chose that exact moment to turn and wave at Jean. 

‘Jean! Come on! We’re going to play soccer with powers - be on our team!’ 

‘I think I’ll go,’ Jean said and stood. 

‘Go play,’ Alex said and rose too. As she ran towards the game, Alex steered his steps towards Erik, who was heading towards the mansion. When he came close enough, he asked: ‘Can I borrow your lighter?’ He took a cigarette from behind his ear and gestured with it. Erik waved his hand, and a lighter flew out of his coat pocket and landed in his hand. He stood still as Alex lit his cigarette. When he handed it back, he said: 

‘I heard from Jean that you’d taken up talking feelings with the kids.’ 

‘We can’t let Charles do all the work,’ Erik simply said. He started walking again, and Alex fell into his stride. 

‘It was the professor I wanted to talk to you about.’ Erik stopped suddenly and gave him an odd look. 

‘Has Hank been blabbering?’ he asked. 

‘What?’ Alex said, confounded. ‘What’s Hank got to do with it?’ Erik relaxed noticeably. 

‘Nothing,’ he said and waved it away. ‘What were you saying?’ 

‘About Professor Xavier. He took Susanna’s death real hard, and I think he took having to expel Jason even harder. I’m... worried about him.’ Erik sighed. 

‘We all are,’ he said. ‘But he lost two of his students in as many days - it’s not surprising...’ 

‘It’s been almost two weeks,’ Alex said. 

‘Do you expect it to just disappear?’ Erik snapped. 

‘No, I don’t.’ They started walking again. As they mounted the stairs, Alex explained: ‘I have no idea why, but he trusts you. Perhaps you could... I dunno. Talk to him.’ Erik frowned. 

‘He’s usually the one who does the talking.’ 

‘Look, if you can assure Jean, I don’t see why the professor would be more difficult.’ Erik rolled his eyes. 

‘I assumed even you would be a better judge of character than that,’ he said and glanced at his watch. Then he offered him a curt nod and said: ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Before Alex had had time to answer, he had turned on his heel and was heading to the entrance. 

***

It was just after two in the afternoon, and Charles had reached the state of despair over paperwork which made him want to have a drink. He probably should not. In his experience, drinking if you felt you needed it usually made things feel worse. Besides, two o’clock was far too early. It was the kind of thing only students and alcoholics did, and seeing as he was not the former and did not want to become the latter, he decided against it. 

A knock on the door saved him from his own agonising. Erik stepped in.

‘What are the children doing outside?’ Charles asked. ‘They’re being awfully noisy.’ 

 

‘I think they’re playing football,’ Erik said, ‘but it’s always a little hard to tell, when they start using their powers. The rules tend to blur.’ Charles smiled weakly. There was a moment of silence, where Erik stood in the middle of the study, waiting for him to speak. 

‘How’s the paperwork?’ he asked finally. Charles sighed. 

‘Absolutely atrocious,’ he sighed. ‘I feel like I might just hit the bottle and be done it.’ Erik chuckled. 

‘Or we could play something.’ He showed what he was holding in his hand. It was the book with piano duets he had been given. Charles had altogether forgotten about it during the intermediate months when they had not had time. 

‘Yes, that would be delightful,’ he admitted, and found that even the thought of playing made him relax a little. 

They took care with choosing the piece to play, and finally settled for a fantasy by Schubert. How troubled it sounded, Charles reflected as they started playing. Lovelorn, almost. He tried to concentrate on the notes, but as the melody grew stronger and more hopeful, his eyes were drawn to Erik’s hands, which moved over the keys with such precision. A memory bled through, of Erik playing a Schubert sonata on a grand piano, but the contentment he felt in that memory was not because of the music. He was in South Africa, in a large house where he was the only person alive. The owner of the grand piano and the house lay a few yards away, the blood from the cut in his throat already congealing. The house, the grand piano, even the expensive jacket the man wore instead of the SS uniform Erik had known him to wear were all bought with blood money. He was taking a risk by not leaving at once, but the temptation of the piano had been too great. His mother had always liked when he had played, even if he had not been particularly good back then, and the piano in their flat in Düsseldorf had been very old. He never could pass these men’s musical instruments without wanting to play on them, as if he could cleanse the object by making music. He imagined it as a greeting to those who had lost their lives to the man he had just killed. An Austrian piece of music, played by Jewish hands on a Nazi’s instrument. Perhaps it was an act of reappropriation - they might have declared his people strangers in their lands, but the music of Germany and Austria did not belong to them, and at every opportunity, he would play it on their instruments with the same hands that brought about their punishment. 

Charles hit the wrong key. 

‘Sorry,’ he murmured and tried to find his place in the piece again. Erik paused, watching him patiently, and they continued. He tried to sink into the music and surrender to it, but he failed. His hands would not move on their own accord, swept to the right keys by some mysterious force. The playing was too conscious, and his mind too heavy. Time upon time, he hit the wrong key or even hit two at once by mistake, and finally he sighed and slumped back. Erik only continued playing for another few moments before also stopping. 

‘My playing’s very bad today,’ Charles said. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Don’t be,’ Erik said, but nevertheless did not try to correct him. ‘A lot on your mind?’ Charles sighed. There was evidently no way to hide that. Still, he wanted to keep that discussion at a distance for as long as possible, so instead he said: 

‘I’ve written a letter to my old supervisor at Oxford, and asked if he could take on Hank in some capacity.’ Erik frowned, but then schooled his features and asked:

‘Have you sent it off?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘You should give it a little more time,’ he admitted. 

‘I thought you agreed that he needed to see more of the world,’ Charles said, flicked the breaks and wheeled away from the piano. 

‘And now I think that we need him at the school,’ Erik added and followed him. ‘There’s been too much change here as it is. Besides, we’d be understaffed and without a doctor if he left.’ 

‘We wouldn’t be without a doctor,’ Charles said and stopped in front of the unlit fireplace. It perplexed him that Erik would simply ignore that he was as much a medical doctor as Hank. He had a creeping feeling that he was worrying about him specifically. ‘I know I’m not quite as mobile as Hank, but I could do his job.’ 

‘Along with the paperwork and the teaching of five subjects and the rest of it.’ 

‘Oh, don’t start,’ he groused. Erik came to sit in the armchair beside him. 

‘These children need stability,’ he said. ‘You can’t simply send away one of their teachers, even if we think that it’d be best for him, not with things as they are now.’ Charles sighed. 

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know if he’d want to leave now either. He’s been all worried recently.’ 

‘He’s not the only one,’ Erik said. Charles made sure not to meet his eye, but he was aware that he was watching him intently. There seemed nothing to do but to ask. 

‘What is it, Erik?’ 

‘A few days ago, Hank tells me he’s concerned about your health - you’re working far too hard. Today, Alex stops me and says something along the same lines. Does not the fact that they are talking to _me_ about this show you how serious they think this is?’ Charles swallowed his irritation. 

‘Despite what Hank thinks, I’m not about to have a mental breakdown,’ he said matter-of-factly. 

‘You stay up until eleven o’clock doing paperwork, you set the students unrealistic amounts of homework which you then have to mark, you don’t seem to have any appetite, and you’re not sleeping properly.’ Charles sighed and pushed his fringe out of his face. When he looked over at him, he saw him watching him, worry written in his eyes. ‘You don’t look well, Charles.’ 

‘I’m just tired,’ he said. ‘Winter’s dragging on and this term has been hellish. That’s all.’ 

‘No, it isn’t,’ Erik answered and looked into his eyes. His hand found Charles’. ‘What is troubling you?’ Charles exhaled in resignation and pressed his hand. ‘Jason?’ 

‘Of course it’s Jason,’ he said and rubbed his eyes. 

‘None of what happened was your fault.’ 

‘But it was,’ Charles exclaimed. ‘He said it himself - why didn’t I notice what was happening? I had all the relevant information, but I was too simple-minded to see it. I was there when he got the idea, I was with him when he had the jar in his pocket. I was in his mind, for goodness’ sake - I should have noticed!’ Erik’s fingers closed harder around his. Charles stared into thin air, and for a moment all he was aware of was his grip around his hand and the thundering of the blood in his ears. 

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Charles,’ Erik said, his voice urgent. ‘You simply acted to the best of your knowledge...’ 

‘And that knowledge could have been so much better,’ Charles snapped. His voice came close to breaking, and the grip around his hand loosened a little. 

‘But it wasn’t, and you cannot change it. Regretting it won’t bring her back.’ Charles did not know if he was referring to Susanna or Jason, but it was true in either case. 

‘I keep wondering if I did the right thing,’ he said thinly. 

‘You did what you had to,’ Erik said and pressed his hand again. ‘There is no shame in that.’

‘If only there’d been another way...’ 

‘...Then we would have taken it.’ Charles nodded, because he knew he was right, but he still had to swallow to control the sudden tears. 

‘He was such a promising child,’ he whispered. ‘And then... he did _that_. How could he?’ 

‘Perhaps you misread her,’ Erik said softly. ‘Or perhaps it was just a course of action she did not think through. None of it changes anything.’ 

‘But she was a child,’ Charles said. Erik’s eyes widened a little at the pronoun. ‘Medea,’ he whispered. ‘That was what she wanted to be called, and I only ever called her that once or twice, because it didn’t seem right.’ He looked away, thinking of when Jason had left the school, driven home by Alex. Charles had decided not to go, as he could not bear the thought of the long drive sitting beside that child. The sight of her dressed in the boy’s clothes and with her hair sheared had seemed to seal Charles’ guilt in her undoing. Jason may have committed an unforgivable act, but Charles had failed her by handing her back to his parents. The wound Jason’s betrayal had inflicted on him was beyond words. He had trusted her and had grown to love her, and the answer to all the hope he felt for her had been willful murder. He wondered if he could ever trust another person again, or if he could live with more betrayal. 

Erik’s hand moved and pressed his arm. 

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said. ‘It’ll do you good.’ Charles agreed without thinking much of it, and let Erik fetch their outdoor things. 

The air outside bore the promise of spring. Charles turned his face towards the sun as Erik pushed him down the path along the paddocks. It warmed him, but not quite enough. Mildly disappointed, he looked down on his hands, just as Erik stopped. 

‘Look,’ he said and, crouching down by the edge of the path, parted the grass to reveal a small flower. Charles smiled. 

‘Perhaps there’s hope for spring after all.’ Erik’s answering smile slipped a little. 

‘Spring always comes,’ he said and stood. ‘However bad things are, the seasons still change. Time still passes.’ 

‘It’s still a little too cold for spring,’ Charles said, and failed not to sound melancholic. Erik managed not to sigh, but Charles could hear his mind churning, attempting to find something to say and not to think of frost covering the spring flower he had found. They were almost by the stables when he spoke again. 

‘It should warm up in a few days. And if the wind calms, it should get warmer quicker.’ At this, Charles could not help laughing. 

‘You know what they say about Germans and small talk, Erik?’ he said. ‘Well, they’re obviously right. You’re awful at it.’ Erik snorted. 

‘I’m not really German, am I?’ 

‘Of course you’re German,’ Charles answered. ‘What else would you be?’ 

‘A Jew.’ 

‘That’s not a nationality. You were born in Germany,’ he objected. 

‘But a Jew cannot be a citizen of the Reich.’ The calm with which he spoke was startling. Charles was about to tell him sharply that the Nazis had no right to pass such judgement - that no-one had the right to pass any judgement - but he stopped himself.

‘Do you _feel_ German?’ he asked instead. Erik did not answer at once, and Charles suspected that he used the fact that they had reached the old stables to postpone answering. When he sat down on the steps, he sighed. 

‘What does it mean, to feel German?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘I cannot say for certain that I do. When I read Goethe or play Beethoven, I feel an...’ He paused to find the right word. ‘...an _affinity_. Before all that talk of race, they used to say that what made someone German was their language. I fulfill that requirement. I speak it, I dream in it. But not completely. I dream in Yiddish too. That was what my mother most often spoke to me.’ He paused. ‘The last things she said to me were in German,’ he reflected. ‘I think she could not stand to speak our language in front of Schmidt.’ Then he shook his head, as if he realised that he had gone off on a tangent and did not want to go further down that track. He looked up at Charles. ‘No.’ 

‘You don’t feel German?’ Charles said, not certain what he had actually answered. 

‘The Germans killed my family, Charles,’ Erik exclaimed. 

‘The Nazis killed your family,’ he corrected him. 

‘Is there a difference?’ It was stated as a challenge, and suddenly his eyes were ablaze with anger. ‘Because I didn’t see one. I never saw a German stand up and protect a Jew. No-one ever volunteered to hide my family from the soldiers. When they came to take us from our home, they did nothing to stop them. Instead they threw stones at us. And you, who could not possible know, _dare_...’ 

He broke off and inhaled deeply. Charles sat with his hands clasped in his lap, waiting for him to calm down. That accusation of ignorance hurt, but he knew that he had probably deserved it. Not even his telepathy could make him understand the conflict this created within his friend. Charles was so used to Erik, the grown man with unimaginable powers and skin thickened by scars, that he forgot that back then, no such person had existed. Max, the child he had once been, had been as vulnerable to the voice of authority as anyone else, and to him, the thin line between bystanders and perpetrators, if it indeed existed, would have been indiscernible. Charles knew that none of the things he could say about the efficiency of propaganda, the spread of hate and the selfishness of the masses would help. Indeed, they would only fuel his anger. The realisation that there was nothing he could say made him feel very inadequate. All he could do was to sit silent and hope that Erik would compose himself. The topic still lingered between them, and Charles tried to think of something to say which would not be so infected. 

‘What is your nationality on paper?’ he asked finally. 

‘I don’t have one,’ Erik explained. ‘An expatriate in every sense of the word.’ 

‘But... how do you travel, without a passport?’ He gave him a withering look, but could not help grinning. 

‘If you know the right person to pay, passports are not a problem.’ Charles let the implication of forgery pass and asked: 

‘But how come? There must have been places you could have gone after the war.’ Erik sighed and leaned back against the wall. 

‘I was in Israel for a while - well, it during the Palestine Mandate,’ he said finally. ‘I couldn’t stay.’ There was an anticipated silence, until Charles dared to ask: 

‘Why?’ Erik sighed yet again. 

‘Everyone thought it would be a new beginning and a true home,’ he explained. ‘But... it was chaos. Thousands of illegal immigrants, with nowhere to live, nothing to do, no-one to care for them.’ Charles looked down at his hands again. 

‘Did you not feel some kind of...’ He trailed off. 

‘Peace?’ Erik suggested. ‘Sense of homecoming?’ 

‘If you like.’ 

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Not once.’ Charles leaned forwards and placed his hand over his. 

‘Tell me,’ he said softly. Erik stared at his hand, then took it. He closed his eyes, as if it would help him remember, and spoke. 

‘I had been there for about three months. I had nothing to do - I simply wandered around. I wanted to find someone who could teach me to shoot, but I was looking for familiar faces. Suddenly someone grabbed my arm.’ He fell silent for a while and shut his eyes more tightly, as if anticipating pain. ‘It was a woman. I thought she looked old, but she might have been much younger. It was hard to tell with anyone who had been in the camps. She... was convinced that I was her son.’ Charles tightened the grip around his hand. ‘She kept calling me Moyshe, and she wouldn’t listen to me when I explained that that wasn’t my name. Finally I pulled myself loose and ran. I could think of nothing else to do.’ Now he looked up at Charles. ‘That was what kind of place it was, so early after the war. And what’s worse, I kept seeing my mother. I kept looking for my father and my uncle. Anyone. But I did not want to pine away, hoping that they might turn up. I resented every single one of those men and women for thinking that there might still be a life for them, even there.’ 

‘Oh, my friend,’ Charles whispered and leaned closer to put his free hand on his shoulder. Erik hung his head. 

‘It took me so long to change my mind,’ he finally said. ‘I thought it was all so... insignificant.’ He enfolded Charles’ hand between his. When Charles moved forward, he mirrored him, so that their foreheads rested together. They did not have to speak. By now, they simply knew. For a long time, they only sat there. When they finally drew apart, Erik’s hand stayed on his arm. 

‘What did she make you see?’ he asked softly. ‘There in the study, when you confronted her?’ Charles closed his eyes, wishing he had not asked. 

‘I saw my mother.’ He could feel the surprise running through his friend beside him. It took him a moment to find his voice. When he finally spoke, it was hushed, as if the deep-set shame of family secrets tried to stop him from revealing them in any possible way. ‘My stepfather was a violent man. It was easy for him to step into her life after my father died. My mother was already in love with drink, but she’d rather pretend that it was with a man. She was easily manipulated, especially by him. A handsome, compassionate man turns up - she never considered that he was only interested in her money.’ He sighed and raked through his hair with his fingers. ‘I think I’ve done her a huge disservice, Erik,’ he admitted. ‘When she was alive as well as after she died. I was always so resentful because I thought she did not love me. I kept thinking about what an awful mother she was. But now I think that I was reading her wrong all that time. It was never that easy. She was terrified of loving me, because I was too much of a reminder of my father. She thought I was a representation of her mistakes, there to remind her of my father, and the way she loved and hated him, and my stillborn sister, whom she thought she’d killed. It was simply easier to pretend that I was to blame, to keep her own self-resentment at bay.’ His hand fell, and he shook his head. ‘Well, that is another regret for the dead,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it’s some awful trick of the mind, that we see things clearly only after we have lost the opportunity to express them. We never know what to say when it’s staring us in the face.’ 

Erik’s hand pressed his arm, and in his eyes shone a compassionate light, edged with sadness, as if he indeed did not know what to say. 

‘A few years ago, I was so certain of everything,’ Charles continued. ‘I thought I knew exactly where my life was taking me. I never imagined I’d meet another mutant other than Raven. I thought it would stay theoretical - that it would be my little niche of genetics. I thought I’d stay in England, and live an academic bachelor’s life, perhaps marry if the right girl came along. I didn’t think I’d become a headmaster of a mutant school. I certainly never thought I’d come back here.’ He glanced over the grounds, towards the mansion. ‘There are many things I never thought would happen.’ With that he trailed off, and looked down. He had meant to not to look at anything in particular, but he caught sight of his feet, resting unmovingly on their footrests. ‘How wrong I was,’ he murmured. ‘Reality has grown teeth and claws. How savage it seems.’ 

Erik dipped his head in assent and squeezed his arm. How often, wondered Charles, must he have gone over the events of his life and tried to imagine how things could have been? Who had he become if his mother had not died? What would have happened if his family had managed to flee Germany in time? What if none of it had ever happened? He might have become a jeweller like his uncle, or a minor civil servant like his father. He might have married, and ignored any other desires he had. He might have learned to bear hatred stoically, and rise above it, or it might eventually have chipped through his shell, and breed bitterness and resentment. He might have kept his powers a secret, an ill-defined curse which he turned a blind eye on as best he could. Somewhere inside him, the seeds of that hypothetical person must exist, and now when Charles considered it, he thought he could glimpse them. For all Erik’s love of progression, there was something oddly old-fashioned about him. With the way he dressed and spoke, he gave the air of being a shard of a ruined world, swallowed by the abyss of war, the profound remainder of something lost. Perhaps it was that which made him even more defiant against the status quo. If this new, cruel world would not have him, just as the old had rejected him, he would not accept it. The world would have to be reshaped to fit him, not the other way around. 

Charles covered his hand with his own and turned to him. 

‘Do you remember when we walked here for the first time, when you had just come back?’ he asked. 

‘Of course,’ Erik said.

‘Were you happy?’ He met his gaze and answered: 

‘Yes.’ He pressed his hand and, leaning in a little, assured him: ‘And I still am. Despite everything.’ 

‘Despite everything,’ Charles agreed and did not look away. A smile tugged at Erik’s mouth, but before it had time to grow, Charles leaned in and pressed their lips together. As if Erik had been waiting for it, he kissed back, but just as the tips of their tongues touched, the kiss broke abruptly. Charles drew away and grabbed his head, and even if Erik shouted his name and took hold of him, he was only aware of that presence. 

Then the sudden stiffness loosened, and he exhaled. 

‘Charles, are you alright?’ Erik asked urgently. His fear was like a drumming sound in the back of his head. ‘Are you in pain?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ Charles said, a little stunned, and touched his forehead. It had not hurt, but it had been startling. 

‘Perhaps we should get you back,’ Erik said and stood. ‘We should let Hank examine you.’ Charles caught his sleeve and looked up at him. 

‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he said. ‘It just took me by surprise. I felt Emma Frost inside my head.’ Erik lost yet more colour, and looked over his shoulder, as if he expected the Brotherhood to come marching over the fields. 

‘Is she close?’ Charles put his fingers to his temple and extended his consciousness. _Erik. The mutants at the mansion. A few locals..._

‘No,’ he said, his hand dropping. ‘She must be within range, but she’s not close. She’s blocking me - I can’t tell her location very precisely.’

‘But she read your mind?’ Erik asked. 

‘No, she did a mind-sweep of the area,’ he said. ‘It was not directed specifically at me - I was just able to feel it.’ Erik did not look calmed. 

‘What does she want?’ he murmured. 

‘Impossible to say. But I suppose she has at least one good reason to come here.’ Erik looked at him. ‘You.’ 

‘What would she want with me?’ he said sharply. 

‘You did abandon the Brotherhood and leave it in her hands, and now she and my sister are engaging in terrorism,’ Charles said. 

‘But you thought that Bedford was attacked because it was close to the school,’ Erik said suddenly. ‘What if they’re planning something in Salem? Or against the school?’ For a brief moment, Charles imagined what the news broadcast would say of a small private school blown up by terrorists. They would never know that the victims as well as the perpetrators were mutants. It would be a brilliant ploy. The thought made Charles feel quite sick. 

‘We should get back,’ Charles said. Erik looked at him, not attempting to move. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now, Erik,’ he told him. ‘We’ll have to wait and see. If it’s that close to home, we can fight back.’ He nodded and started pushing him back towards the mansion. Charles looked out over the grounds, and felt a grim sense of protectiveness for the estate, for the children, for the man with him. There had to be a way he could protect it. 

***

By next day, Charles had started suspecting that the other mutants’ worry for him was more detrimental to his nerves than the work they tried to dissuade him from doing. He did not need anyone else to tell him that he was pushing himself too hard, but there was a safe familiarity in the work which kept other things at bay. Not even Erik seemed to understand the comfort of the strain. Nevertheless, he felt that it was starting to take its toll. After lunch, a need for solitude had grown in him, and, asking not to be disturbed, he locked himself in his study. 

The needle scratched and jumped where the record had been worn down, but stayed in its track. Charles barely noticed the interruptions. He knew the recording off by heart, and any word, any call of appreciation, that was missed out, his mind supplied for him.

‘ _Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children._ ’ He sunk into the familiar words and closed his eyes. The room around him seemed to dissolve. The only thing that existed was the words and the dream - King’s dream, Xavier’s dream. Never mind that they turned to different groups. They wanted freedom for all men. 

Charles wished he had been there to hear the speech in person, but his attempts at persuasion had fallen on deaf eyes. Alex had not done it of any malice, but had explained that traffic would be difficult because of the march. Charles knew that the reason was that he was afraid they might get in trouble, not for being white, but for being mutants. They were not exactly inconspicuous, but how anyone would be able to tell their genetic makeup he did not know. There had been no other option than to quench his disappointment. Instead, he had read the speech many times, and had finally obtained a recording. He did not know how many times he had played it now. Every time he had doubts, he would lock himself in his study and play that recording, and the words and the cheers would tell him, _it is possible - there can be freedom. There will be freedom._

‘ _But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force._ ’ 

The key on the inside of the door turned with a snap, and the door opened. Not moving, not even opening his eyes, Charles said: 

‘I asked not to be disturbed.’ When a pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders, he added: ‘That included you, you know.’ He opened one eye and peered up at Erik, who looked down back at him. 

‘So this is what you’re doing.’ 

‘Ssh,’ Charles said. ‘I’m trying to listen.’ Erik nodded in silent acknowledgement and listened with him. 

‘ _We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back_.’ Charles reached up and took the hand on his shoulder. It was a physical act of bracing himself; the last part of the speech always made him shiver. 

‘ _Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends. And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed : “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”_ ’ And as the majestic voice counted the places to oppression - Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama - all the time, that echo. ‘ _I have a_ dream _today!_ ’ His voice bore a million voices in it, as it called, ‘ _let freedom ring._ ’ 

‘ _From every mountainside, let freedom ring. And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:_

_‘Free at last! Free at last!_

_‘Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!_ ’ 

The greatness of those words and the hope they bore pierced his heart. Erik’s hands fell from his shoulders, and he watched Charles weep at the beauty and the promise, praying that it might be so for them too. 

***

Even when man is free, Charles later reflected, he would still be forced, bound, locked up in a prison of his own making. Even now, late into the night, as Erik curled close to him and placed his hand over his heart, the impact of the speech lingered. Erik pressed his lips to Charles’ shoulder, as if to retain the post-coital pleasure, he whispered: 

‘Do you ever have doubts?’ For a brief, startling moment, Charles thought he meant doubts for them, but then he realised that Erik must have understood what was on his mind. 

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Constantly. To most, we are not even people. We are too abstracted for that. Even those who are enlightened and tolerant often think we are a threat like nuclear war or mass starvation.’

‘Never lose faith, Charles,’ Erik told him, as if asking him a favour. 

‘You don’t even agree with me.’

‘Not entirely. The injustice of this world makes me as angry as it makes you upset. Without you to balance me, the only way I can respond is through violence.’ 

‘I’m your safety-catch,’ Charles said, rather amused. Erik kissed his face. 

‘My ballast,’ he answered. ‘I envy you, Charles. I know you think that when I say that you are naive, it is criticism, but in reality, it is jealousy making me speak. It is something I have lost.’ They pressed closer, and his lips slid over his ear, making Charles gasp. He grabbed his arm to keep him closer, but then his grip changed, stalling him. That feeling of being observed hovered at the edge of his mind, and they both stayed frozen for the second it went on for, as if it were a searching flashlight, not a searching thought. Then it passed, and he relaxed again. 

‘Thank God she wasn’t five minutes earlier,’ Erik said. Charles groaned at the thought of Emma Frost reading their minds in such a compromising situation, but said nothing. They leaned together again, until Charles observed: 

‘Yesterday it happened twice, today four times.’ For a moment he imagined the sensations of Frost’s mind-scans as foreboding contractions, which would eventually lead to some culmination less fortunate than childbirth. 

‘Charles, what do we do if the Brotherhood’s intentions are hostile?’ 

‘You’d be the one to lead the team,’ Charles answered without hesitation. 

‘Would they want that?’ Erik asked. 

‘Well, I want it,’ he said curtly. ‘It needs to be someone I can trust, and Hank, Alex and Sean, while very reliable, are so young. I don’t want them to have the responsibility.’ Erik nodded in understanding. ‘Your mission would be one of defense, of course. Meanwhile, I’ll take the children down to the bunker. It’s the safest place. From there, I can monitor you all.’ 

‘How do you propose to get down to the bunker?’ Erik asked, his hesitation obvious. Charles paused; he had been so concerned with it being impenetrable to forget that there were only stairs leading down. 

‘A few of the older boys will have to carry me,’ he said with a sigh. ‘There’s no way about it. Scott and Remy should be able to do it.’ 

‘We should tell the others,’ Erik observed. ‘Because you haven’t mentioned any of this, have you?’ 

‘No, I saw no reason to worry them. It might still be nothing.’ 

‘In the morning,’ he murmured and kissed his skin. 

‘Yes,’ Charles answered and reached around to stroke his hair. Soon, they would draw apart and feign sleep for each other’s sakes. How often did they lie awake side by side, but did not dare to move, least they prove to the other that they lay sleepless? Was it a useful charade to pretend things were better than they were, or was it time wasted? Not ready to surrender to the illusion just yet, Charles tugged Erik’s arms closer around him and savoured how he nuzzled into his neck.


	19. Chapter 19

From where she stood at the top of the stairs, Medea could hear the piano music on the radio. She leaned against the rails and closed her eyes, trying to imagine that she was back in the professor’s vast mansion, listening to the music coming from the study. It was difficult to fool herself, when the cut hair itched against her neck and the trousers trapped her and the bruise on the side of her face throbbed. The power inside her struggled against its bonds. She tugged at them until her throat burned and her tears swelled. Even if the exertion was merely physical, it made her slump against the railing, panting. 

Why had he not understood? The sudden anger made her tug at the psychic bonds around her powers yet again. She had done everything he had asked her to and more besides - she only wanted to be able to protect him and the others. Perhaps he felt that he did not need her protection. His body may be broken, but his mind was powerful. The anger transformed, and turned into something else, which was much more painful. She had never felt it before - homesickness. Not for the first time, she realised how much she missed the kindly cripple who had taken her in. If she asked - if she told him about the way her father had struck her, the things she had heard him say, perhaps he would take her back? 

It was easy to slip inside her father’s study, and it did not take her long to find his address book. Shoving it under her jumper, she left again. At the stairs, she hesitated and listened. Mother was in the kitchen, and the radio would conceal her footsteps. Carefully, she descended and tiptoed to the telephone. Finding the phone number was easy in the address book was easy. There was only one name under the letter X. Still her hands felt unsteady when she lifted the receiver and turned the dial to the correct numbers. At the last digit, she let the dial go and watched it click back into place. The tone down the line bleared in her ear. She closed her eyes. _Please, please, please, pick up._

In mid-ring, there was a click, and the sound of an open connection was heard. Then through the slight buzz came that soft voice, speaking with its comforting accent. 

‘Hello - Professor Xavier speaking.’ Medea bit her lip, fearing that her mother would hear her. She opened her mouth - she knew exactly what to say. _It’s Medea - please let me come back. I can’t stay here. My father..._ ‘Hello?’ said the voice again. ‘Is there anyone there?’ She tried again, but the words would not come. Never had she wanted so much to speak and not been able to. The voice grew sterner. ‘Is there anyone there?’ _Yes, yes, it’s me, it’s Medea, just read my mind, there are things you need to know - none of us are safe!_

A sigh of resignation on the other side of the line. There was a click and then the sharp dialing tone, ringing in her ear. She remained frozen, receiver still raised. She did not hear the footsteps. 

‘Jason? What are you doing?’ Her mother’s hand took the receiver out of hers and put it back in its cradle. Medea looked up at her and took in her reproachful face. ‘You shouldn’t be playing with the telephone.’ Then her gaze went to the table. ‘What’s this?’ she asked and picked up the address book. As soon as it was in her hands, she recognised it. ‘Jason, did you take this?’ she asked harshly and waved the book. Medea did not answer, too intent on what was going on in her own mind. ‘God, Jason. You can’t go through other people’s things. Your father will be very angry, you know that.’ She slipped the book into the pocket of her apron and looked down at her child. ‘Well? Have you got anything to say for yourself?’ Medea simply looked at her, for so long that she finally turned away her eyes. ‘You know, it wouldn’t hurt if you talked, like normal people do,’ her mother said curtly and turned to return to the kitchen. 

There! A weak link in the restraints - a lapse of faith in the punishment - a wish that things might be different. It was enough. Medea pushed with her whole mind, and the wall started to give. She felt her powers seeping back into her conscious mind. Her mother was halfway down the hall. It was so easy to reach out with that new-found power and change what she saw. As the woman screamed at the sight of her husband, hanging impaled from the wall, Medea felt a semblance of content returning to her. 

***

Charles had put off speaking to the others about the possible threat all morning. He had judged that breakfast would be a bad time for it. Then they had all gone to their different chores, and interrupting them seemed wrong. Instead, he had started a new article and watched Erik help the children practice through the French windows. He had formed smooth metal discs from some scrap metal, and made them soar around in the air, while the students tried to take down as many as possible. Once when he looked over his shoulder, he saw Erik hovering some fifteen feet over the lawn, enfolded in an orb of crackling energy, as the metal discs swirled around him and the red flash of Scott’s optic blast and the light of Remy’s explosions lit up around him. It was a majestic, beautiful sight, but it reminded Charles too much of war. The children obviously thought of it just as a game - he could hear them shouting and cheering just as they did when they played football or tag - but Erik was training them for the battle-field, with Charles’ silent blessing. They needed to learn those things, he knew, but the necessity hurt him. What concerned him most what how ecstatic Erik looked, borne aloft by his power. Was it simply the feeling of might the control of the metal gave him, or was it the violence which surrounded it that made him feel that way? Even if the same electromagnetic field which held him up would shield him if either of the boys missed the discs and fired against him, the danger must be palpable. Perhaps Erik missed the din of battle, and that love for violence was something which Charles could never rid him of. Even if he knew that it would never come between them, the knowledge that there were parts of him which he could not reach was disconcerting. 

It was the prank call that woke Charles from his reverie and made him decide to call the others. He started stuffing his pipe, hoping it would calm him, and reached out with his mind until he found each of them - Erik, Hank, Alex, Sean. _Please report to my study as soon as possible,_ he projected. _It’s not an emergency, but we may have a situation._ Outside, he heard the metal discs thudding to the lawn and Erik telling them that they would continue later. He was the first to arrive to the office. 

‘You’re telling them, then?’ Charles nodded, just as Sean and Alex entered, quickly followed by Hank. They all came to stand by the desk. Erik, who knew what this was about, claimed the visitor’s chair. 

‘What’s up, Prof?’ Alex asked. 

‘Has anything happened?’ Hank added, frowning. 

‘There’s no immediate cause for alarm,’ Charles said and looked at each of them in turn. ‘However, we must be on our guard. The Brotherhood are closer than they’ve been since the Bedford attack. Emma Frost has been mind-scanning the area.’ The three mutants stared at him in shock. 

‘Since when?’ Sean asked. Charles put his pipe down and folded his hands together. 

‘Going on three days now.’ Their faces fell, and then they all started talking at once.

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell us sooner?’ 

‘We’ve been letting the kids play outside...!’ 

‘But why would the Brotherhood turn up now?’ 

Deciding to answer Hank’s question, Charles said: 

‘I don’t know - Frost has shielded her mind from me, and even if it would be possible to push through her shields, it might harm her considerably.’ 

‘Frost’s well-being is not on our agenda, Charles,’ Erik pointed out. 

‘It is on mine,’ he answered flatly. ‘As for their reasons, it could be part of their terrorist activities. They might be planning on attacking the school, or somewhere around.’ 

‘We’ll be ready for them,’ Sean said, sounding eager at the thought of a fight. 

‘It is only one of several possibilities,’ Charles reminded him. ‘There might be a more personal reason, for example.’ He looked at Erik, and the others followed his gaze. Alex was the first to speak. 

‘So you’re putting us in trouble again.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alex,’ Charles said. ‘This isn’t Erik’s fault.’ 

‘What do you think they actually want with me?’ Erik asked. 

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he answered, shrugged and relit his pipe. ‘Speculation won’t lead us anywhere. I simply wanted you all to know about this. Don’t tell the children, of course.’ 

‘So we’re just going to sit here and wait until they turn up?’ Sean exclaimed. 

‘Not at all,’ Charles said. ‘Hank, would you get the blueprints for Cerebro? You and Erik should start clearing out the chamber.’ Erik rose, but Hank made no attempt to move. 

‘We’re rebuilding Cerebro?’ 

‘It’s just the tool we need now,’ Charles explained. ‘I think I have a few ideas how we might make the design even better.’ 

‘May I make a suggestion, Professor?’ he asked and raised a clawed finger. Charles gestured with his pipe to show him to continue. ‘It struck me the other week that the neural activity of the brain creates a weak magnetic field, and... well, we’ve got an expert on that kind of thing, don’t we?’ Charles looked at Hank in delighted surprise. 

‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. Inspired, Hank!’ 

‘Especially as that field is probably stronger in a telepath...’ 

‘What are you suggesting?’ Erik asked, looking perplexed. 

‘That you help with rebuilding Cerebro,’ Hank explained. ‘Combined with my engineering and the professor’s knowledge of neurology, your expertise in magnetism...’ 

‘Wait, _wait_ ,’ Erik said and silenced him with a gesture. ‘I can sense and control magnetic fields, but that does not mean that I know how it works.’ 

‘You have a natural aptitude for it,’ Charles pointed out. ‘That would be valuable.’ 

‘Most of it rests on very simple grounds,’ Hank added. ‘It’s all basic physics...’ Erik stared at him in incredulity. 

‘I don’t know any “basic physics”!’ Hank stopped, looking quite lost. ‘I haven’t got your university degrees - I was expelled from school when I was eight. If I ever knew any physics, I’ve forgotten it. It’s never been important, and I never had a head for science. Of course I will help with the assembling - that will no doubt speed up the process - but I don’t see how I could help with the design.’ 

‘I could explain what you needed to know,’ Charles said. ‘Whichever part you play, you deserve to know how Cerebro works, and I see no reason for you to reduce yourself to the position of building-worker, when you could enrich the construction. Now, I suggest you get some clearing done before lunch. As much as we can, we should reuse what is already there, but you’ll have to make a list of what’s beyond saving, Hank.’ 

‘What about the kids?’ Alex asked. ‘Shall we keep them inside?’ 

‘I don’t think they’re the target, if there is one. Keep an eye on them, but there’s no reason to keep them inside,’ Charles said. ‘There won’t be any lessons the next few days, though. I don’t think they’ll mind.’ 

‘I’ll get you those blueprints,’ Hank said and stalked off. Erik met Charles’ eye and thought, _you must be insane to even consider this,_ but then grinned and left too. Alex muttered something about the children and went outside, leaving only Sean, who looked at the professor and shook his head. 

‘Dude, this place is never normal,’ he murmured and left Charles to his pipe and his blueprints. 

*** 

With emptying the Cerebro chamber a priority, Erik’s science lesson had to be confined to an hour in the afternoon, when he paused the moving and reforming of metal to regain his strength. Hank might have called it basic physics, but the concepts governing Cerebro were complicated to anyone who did not possess his genius intellect. Charles was sure that given enough time, Erik would be capable to understand it, but after half an hour of Charles’ explanations and scribbling on the blackboard he used for lessons, Erik was obviously as frustrated as he was bored. Thinking that another teaching technique would work better, Charles beat the chalk off his fingers and suggested: 

‘Let me connect our minds.’ Erik looked at him in surprise, but nodded his consent. Instead of putting his fingers to his own temple, Charles reached out and placed them against Erik’s, visualising a link between them. Erik’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of it. 

_You can feel the Earth’s gravitational pull, can’t you?_

_Yes._

_You can feel the way electric fields meet the magnetic fields?_

_Yes._

Not breaking the connection between them, Charles took Erik’s hand and placed it on his own forehead. 

_Can you feel my brain working?_

The muscles around Erik’s eyes tightened in concentration. 

_Yes. Yes, there is something..._

_Concentrate on it._

And slowly, he pulled back. Erik’s eyes opened, his hand still against Charles’ head. 

‘What did you feel?’ Erik swallowed and searched for words. 

‘A... shift.’ 

‘And now?’ On the other side of the mansion, he sensed Rahne, who was wondering whether there would be crumble after dinner. 

‘It feels different... Stronger...’ 

Next, he reached out with his mind as far as Salem Town, where the grocer was having a mental rant against communists and mutants, which to him was more or less the same thing. Finally, his mind moved closer to home and dipped into Jean’s head to have a short telepathic discussion about the weather. The further he stretched, the stronger what Erik felt was, but even when he did not use his telepathy, he could evidently feel the magnetic field of his brain. When Charles separated their minds again, Erik took his hand from his forehead and flexed it, awed at what he had sensed. 

‘I have never noticed that before,’ he murmured. ‘It’s so... delicate.’ 

‘Yes, but still incredibly strong,’ Charles answered. ‘Within it is our entire world of thought. Let me explain what happens, in neurological terms.’ He opened his mind to him again. He did not thrust the statistics, read-outs and diagrams, as well as blueprints of Cerebro, into his mind, but showed it to him for him to absorb.  
  _Can you see what happens - do you understand what you sense? Can you see how it is amplified by Cerebro?_

_Yes - yes. I never imagined... How can we live with this complexity inside our heads?_

_Evolution, my friend. Our minds developed through mutations in the same way as our powers did, only over thousands of years instead of between two generations. It is this complexity which makes us able to think, and it is what I read. This complexity is what makes us different from the beasts._

_Do you mean that this is what a soul is? Electrical pulses through nerves? ...Do you mean we_ evolved _a soul?_

Charles withdrew again, and met Erik’s disbelieving gaze was on him. 

‘I suppose I would claim we did,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t really believe in any other force.’ 

‘But...’ Erik made a frustrated gesture, looking for words. ‘Evolution is so... arbitrary. It is based on trial and error. Surely there must be something more to creation?’ Charles bit his lip. 

‘To me, there is nothing commonplace about the workings of nature, even if it is not purposeful or direct,’ he explained. ‘Is there not beauty in the flawed too?’ Erik stared out of the window. The hand which had rested against Charles’ head a few minutes ago flexed. 

‘Does it not make you feel meaningless?’ he whispered. 

‘Not meaningless,’ Charles said. ‘Humbled.’ Erik looked at him searchingly. 

‘With a mind like that, you should never be humbled.’ Charles met his gaze. 

‘And yet I always do.’ 

Erik’s gaze remained passive for a moment, but then a grim smile tugged at his mouth. 

‘Sometimes, though, I think your modesty is just an act. You know your power. You know what you are capable of. After all, we are building a machine with only the purpose of making you even more powerful.’ 

‘For the good of mutantkind,’ Charles intoned. Erik’s smile took on almost a cruel edge. 

‘I would never claim otherwise.’ But there was something knowing about the way he leaned in and planted a brief kiss on his lips. 

***

By the evening, Hank’s blue-prints of the circuiting of Cerebro were completely covered in suggestions and corrections, and sketches of a new version lay half-finished on the desk. Charles had not paused since his psychic explanations to Erik. Sean had brought him dinner on a tray, but he had only eaten half of it before inspiration lured him back to his work. By nine o’clock, his concentration was fraying, and an ache had settled in his wrist and behind his eyes. Finally he left his desk and transferred himself onto the couch and pulled a blanket over him. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace, but he could not remember when it was done. He supposed it had been Sean, and that he had simply been too absorbed in his work to notice. When the door opened, he was staring into the flames idly, trying to think of something else than psychic conductors and scramblers. 

He heard Erik hesitate in the doorway. Then the door closed carefully and footsteps approached. A light kiss pressed against his hair. Charles hummed in response. 

‘Are you not well?’ Erik asked softly and rounded the couch. When he sat down on the edge, the back-light threw his face in darkness and made his hair shine red. 

‘I’m fine, just a little worse for wear after today,’ Charles assured him. ‘How’s the Cerebro chamber?’ 

‘Completely cleared,’ Erik said. ‘Most of the plating can be reused, but the actual circuitry has all melted.’ 

‘I have new designs for most of that anyway,’ Charles said and leaned his head back. Erik took his hand, which rested limply on his side. 

‘Should we call off chess?’ 

‘No, no,’ he said quickly and pulled himself up a little. ‘There’s really no need to fuss. I’m just overworked. Pour us a drink, will you?’ As Erik rose and poured the drinks, the table with the chess-set rose, turned a quarter of a turn and moved closer to the couch. 

‘I’m assuming you’ll be white,’ Erik explained and handed out the scotch, putting his own glass on the table with the chess-board on. Charles had assumed he would take a chair, but instead he took hold of his legs, lifted them and sat down on the couch, putting his feet down in his lap. He obviously tried his upmost not to make the action look conscious, but the way he slung an arm around his legs and grabbed one of his feet gently was undoubtedly a gesture. Charles simply sipped his scotch and moved a pawn, feeling quietly grateful to him. 

The first few moves were made in silence. After a while, Charles asked: 

‘How are you and Hank getting on?’ 

‘I told you, fine.’ 

‘I meant on a personal level.’ 

‘Oh,’ Erik said. ‘He only insulted me a few times.’ Charles smiled. 

‘An improvement, then.’ He considered if he was in a position that taking a piece and losing one himself would be worth it. Deciding to stall for a moment, he made a different move. 

‘I’m glad you’re not at each other’s throats all the time.’ 

‘It’s going quite well, actually,’ Erik said and swirled his drink around in the glass. He fell silent for a moment and admitted: ‘I’m pleased.’ 

‘Of course you are,’ Charles said and reached out to touch his arm. ‘You have every right to be.’ Erik caught his hand and pressed it, a smile flickering on his face. Then he let go and the game continued. 

For a long time, they did not speak, too content to break the silence. When Erik levitated the bottle over to where they sat and refilled their glasses, Charles told him that they had work to do in the morning, but did not stop him. The atmosphere was too relaxed for that. Lying with his feet in Erik’s lap and a game of chess between them, Charles wished that evening would not deepen into night, and then lighten with the coming of dawn. He wished the end of every day might be like this. 

‘Can you imagine the future, Erik?’ he asked when only a handful pieces remained on the board. Erik, who had been considering his next move, glanced up, evidently not understanding what he meant. ‘Can you see yourself in, say, ten years?’ He thought about it, idly playing with Charles’ toes through the blanket. 

‘I used not to,’ he said, ‘but now... yes. I suppose so.’ 

‘Your hair will have gone white,’ Charles teased, and Erik grinned and answered: 

‘You’d be bald.’ He chuckled. 

‘Perish the thought.’

‘In ten years, I’d be forty-five,’ Erik observed after a little while. Charles sighed sympathetically. 

‘It sounds more now than it will feel like then, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I’ll be forty-three.’ Erik made his move, but when he leaned back, he looked troubled. ‘Erik?’ 

‘Just...’ He swallowed. ‘Not used to thinking about things like that. The prospect of being alive beyond the present moment.’ Charles bit his lip, not knowing if he should respond with worry or compassion. For wont of anything else, he placed his hand on his arm. 

‘Now you can,’ he said softly. ‘There is a future here.’ 

‘And what is to say that the soldiers are not at the door now?’ Erik asked gravely. ‘How can we know that they won’t come in the night? If we wake up and find the children gone...’ His voice strained and he fell silent. 

‘Don’t think of such things, Erik,’ Charles implored. ‘They won’t happen.’ 

‘We have no way of knowing,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘With the way humans are treating mutants, do you think we have another ten years?’ 

‘It won’t come to that,’ Charles said, emphasising every word. When he did not answer, he asked him: ‘Please, Erik, don’t talk like that.’ 

‘I’m sorry to upset you,’ Erik said, ‘but it’s still the truth. We need to be on our guard. The Brotherhood, the humans... we have too many enemies.’ 

‘And we’ll face them together.’ 

‘When they come for us?’ Erik asked. ‘What if it already too late then?’ Charles paused. His first reaction was anger, because it surprised him that Erik would say such things, but he controlled himself and instead answered: 

‘I do not believe in preemptive violence. I thought you had given that up.’ Erik looked at him, jaw clenched and eyes sharp. ‘If we make the first move, we’d provoke them,’ Charles reasoned. ‘It would endanger all mutants. There are too few of us. If we fight them, we lose. There must never be a war - all we can do is to prevent it.’ 

Erik blinked, and the shadow passed. 

‘I... of course,’ he said, sounding choked. ‘I defer to your better judgement. But still, I worry.’ 

‘I know,’ Charles said and took his hand.

‘I could not bear the thought of losing any of this,’ Erik said quietly. ‘The school, the children... you.’ 

‘You won’t,’ he whispered and tugged at his hand. Erik shifted closer, until he could rest his head against his shoulder. Charles made him raise his head so that he could see him, and, looking into his eyes, he voiced a promise: ‘You won’t, Erik.’ He stroked a strand of hair back behind his ear and smiled. ‘In ten years’ time, we’ll still be two confirmed old bachelors, running this place. Much like now.’ Erik smiled a little and pushed Charles’ fringe out of his forehead. 

‘I’ll take your word for it, then.’ Then he withdrew a little and moved his knight. ‘Check.’ 

Sobered by this turn of events, which he realised now was startlingly obvious, Charles moved his king out of danger. The game consumed them again, but worry still weighed heavily on their minds. Charles lost his rook, and retaliated by taking Erik’s knight. The game was losing its possibility to captivate, but perhaps he was simply too tired. He settled a little lower on the couch to lean his head back, and Erik’s hand came to rest on his. The tingle of Frost’s mind in his came and went. He decided not to mention it - Erik did not need the reminder. Momentarily, Charles reflected on how quickly his friend’s mood could change, a worrying but probably not surprising thing. There was no need to provoke him further. 

So he pushed it all aside - the threat of the Brotherhood and the hostility of humanity, Erik’s worries for them and his own worries for Erik. 

‘What do you say to that we leave it here?’ 

Erik nodded and rose. He watched as Charles pulled himself into his chair, and then rounded him. Instead of pushing him out of the room at once, he put his arms around him and nuzzled into his hair. Charles smiled, and a longing for intimacy shot through him, but he was far too tired. He turned his head and pecked him on the lips, and Erik withdrew. In the end, they simply went to bed and slept huddled close. For now, it sufficed. 

***

Getting hold of materials for Cerebro was not an instant process, but within a few days, they had assembled what they needed, which left a considerable hole in the school’s finances. Charles supposed he should have expected it, but after he had mentioned that fact in passing, an envelope containing a cheque from a Swiss bank appeared on his desk. When Erik came to ask about particulars for the construction of the inner shell, Charles showed it to him. 

‘Yes?’ Erik said and quirked an eyebrow. 

‘You must understand that I can’t accept this.’ 

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Because you won’t accept a donation, or because I took that money from men I killed?’ Charles had not expected Erik to be quite so open about it, and in the moment where he tried to collect his thoughts, Erik took his hand and gently forced it away. ‘Let these funds do some good, Charles. I think I owe that to those it was truly stolen from.’ Charles’ arm relaxed, and he moved to put it away, trying to forget the sum on it, which staggered even him. 

As Hank and Erik continued to construct the inner shell, Charles set up his work on the finer mechanisms in one of the empty side-rooms in the basement. It was in the late morning when he was busy welding the inner parts of one of the cylinders together when he sensed minds. When he stopped his work and looked up, he saw some of the students in the doorway, staring at the sight of their headmaster in simple work-clothes and safety-goggles. Taking the goggles off, Charles waved them closer. 

‘Come see,’ he urged them. Jean was the first to come closer, followed by Scott and Ororo. 

‘What’s it going to be?’ Scott asked and leaned as close as he dared as he tried to get a good look at the odd machinery through his visor. 

‘This is one of the most important parts of Cerebro,’ Charles explained. ‘Or will be, rather. Doctor McCoy made the prototypes, but I’ve added a few touches of my own.’ Jean, who had evidently heard the stories about Cerebro, surveyed the wired cylinder and asked: 

‘Why are you rebuilding it?’ Both Scott and Ororo looked like they had been dying to know, but had not dared to ask. Charles felt his smile grow forced, but before he could think of a proper answer, Jean made a surprised sound. 

‘What’s wrong, Jeannie?’ Scott asked urgently, took hold of her arm and then let go promptly. 

‘Nothing - my head tickled,’ she explained and made a face like she had an itch on her nose. 

‘Just psychic residue,’ Charles said, feigning cheerfulness. Frost’s psitouch was as cold as the woman herself. Hoping it would save him from more questions, he put his glasses back on and said: ‘Run along - there’ll be lunch soon.’ Reluctantly, they filed out. Before Charles had time to pick up his tools and continue his work, he heard them stop in the corridor and speak to Erik. Then they retreated, and the teacher entered. He was in overalls, which looked quite odd on him, especially as his hair was as groomed as always. 

‘You’ll hurt your eyes in this light,’ he observed. 

‘Oh, too late,’ Charles said and took off the goggles again. ‘I’m growing steadily more hyperopic. I’ll need glasses before long. Soon, I guess my transformation into a real professor will be complete, like a butterfly slowly turning back into a grey pupa.’ 

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Erik said with a toothy grin. Leaving the topic of his aging process behind, Charles asked: 

‘Are you making progress?’

‘Very well. Most of the panels are in place. I made some suggestions to the wiring that Hank seemed positive about. Also, I think this version will look much better. A little more architecturally planned.’ Charles dipped his head, and Erik asked: 

‘What are you smiling at?’

‘I’m just imagining you living a bohemian artist’s life in Paris and have a rooftop studio in Montmartre,’ he explained. Erik looked confused. ‘It’s just, you’re quite artistic.’ 

‘I’m not convinced of that myself,’ Erik answered guardedly, as if being artistic was somewhat suspicious. 

‘I’ve seen the sculpture you made me, and some of your drawings. They’re exquisite. You should give sketching classes next year.’ Erik smiled at him, but did not look convinced. 

‘Perhaps,’ he simply said. ‘How is yours going?’ 

‘Oh, coming along,’ he said and showed him the mechanism of the cylinder. Erik leaned in to look at it, evidently trying to figure out what did what, as one of his hands settled on Charles’ shoulder. Charles thought that this was the reason why Hank looked so alarmed when he entered, and then cleared his throat awkwardly. 

‘Ah, Hank,’ Charles said, and Erik straightened up. ‘I hear you’re making progress.’ 

‘We’ve installed two-thirds of the panels,’ Hank reported. ‘We will be able to install the rest today. Is the main circuitry looking promising?’ Charles showed him what he had shown Erik. 

‘It’s not finished, but it’s gone well this far. Give me the afternoon, perhaps some of the evening, and it should be done,’ he said. ‘Of course, I’ll leave you to wiring it into the mainframe.’ That was one thing he would not be able to do. Nevertheless, the task made Hank look a little intimidated. 

‘You’ll be there to supervise it, though?’ he asked. 

‘Of course, if you want me,’ Charles said. 

‘We need you, sir,’ Hank explained and picked up the plans for the new Cerebro from a nearby table. ‘This is more your design than mine now, and I don’t want to make a mistake.’ 

‘You’re not going to make a mistake,’ Charles assured him. ‘How long do you think this’ll take you?’ Hank looked at the plans and then said: 

‘Day after tomorrow it’ll be ready for a test-run.’ Charles raised his eyebrows, impressed. 

‘That sounds like a promise, Doctor McCoy.’ Hank straightened and said boldly: 

‘Consider it one, Professor.’ It was one he would keep. 

***

Charles found himself awake suddenly, sheets and darkness wrapped around him. He could not tell what had woken him, because there was no sound around him, and he could not remember his dreams. He started disentangling himself from the sheets, careful not to wake Erik, who was fast asleep on his stomach beside him. The strip of moonlight that nestled in between the curtains fell over his back, and looked like a silver scar on the skin. Charles blinked, and it was simply light through the shadows. When he had disentangled himself from the sheets, he lay down and stared up into the ceiling. Still, his mind gave him no peace. It spun with Cerebro circuiting and article ideas and the faces of the children. It must have been the fact that the test-run of Cerebro was tomorrow that made him feel this overwrought. Considering the state his nerves had been in the past weeks, it was not surprising. It would be a relief when they figured out what the Brotherhood wanted. Once that was resolved, perhaps he could find some time to rest. 

Beside him, Erik stirred. 

‘Charles?’ he said, his voice thick with sleep. ‘Are you awake?’ 

‘Yes.’ Erik moved closer, put his arm around him and put his head against his shoulder. Charles returned the embrace. 

‘Worried about tomorrow?’ 

‘A little tense, perhaps,’ he admitted. 

‘You’ll need your strength.’ 

‘I know,’ Charles murmured and turned his head so that their foreheads rested together. ‘I can’t wait for it to be over.’ 

‘Me neither,’ Erik assured and kissed him. In his mind Charles saw lie-ins and long walks, visits to museums and theatres in New York and leisurely days of teaching and companionship, stolen moments in the study. He kissed back a little fiercer, to show how he wanted the same. Then the kiss broke, and they smiled at each other through the dark. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy. 

‘See you in the morning,’ he whispered. Erik hummed in acknowledgement. Charles was still awake when his bedfellow slipped off, his arms still tightly wound around his chest. 

***

Having seen the work in progress did not prepare Charles for the first entering the newly built Cerebro. The old version may have had a grim beauty to it, but the dome around them was more majestic by far. The panels were not fastened by any visible bolts, and while the bridge had before been supported by several columns, it now seemed to float within the sphere, all thanks to Erik’s handiwork. As he drew his hands over the controls, he reflected that before, there had been chinks in the panel. Now, the metal was completely smooth and so brightly polished that it was almost blue. 

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said and looked over his shoulder, at both Hank and Erik. ‘I’m so very glad you cooperated on this.’ 

‘Sure thing,’ Hank said, trying and failing not to sound nervous. He rubbed his hands on the legs of his overalls, which looked out of place against the other men’s suits. ‘She should take less time to start up now, too, thanks to your redesign.’ Charles started the machine, and instantly, he felt the hum of its power. Reverently, he touched the helmet - a different shape now, not so much a bowl as an arch. Behind him, Erik and Hank continued talking. 

‘Do you actually know Spanish, Hank?’ 

‘Why do you ask?’ 

‘If you did, you would know that cerebro is masculine, but you just referred to the machine as “she”...’ 

‘Computers are often called “she”! It’s like... with ships.’ 

‘Ships are referred to as “she” because sailors were considered to be married to their crafts. How does that map onto computers?’ 

‘You two can continue your discussion on grammatical gender later. I need to concentrate,’ Charles told them, but secretly smiled, relieved that the two of them had accepted each other enough to bicker. 

He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with them each in turn. Then he took a deep breath. 

‘Here goes,’ he said and placed the helmet on his head. 

_The sphere around him expands until it becomes the world. Millions of minds touch his, like brief kisses. He sees them all, every human, every mutant, made equal in his eyes. He looks closer to home, searches._

_I know that mind..._

_He sees the place, the people, he briefly hears the words they say and think. He pulls himself to the surface._

The contact broke, and the space around him closed again. Even within the huge room, he felt suddenly claustrophobic. 

‘Professor?’ Hank’s voice sounded distant, even if he was standing right behind him. ‘Did it work alright?’ 

‘It’s perfect,’ he said, his mind still on what he had seen. ‘It runs wonderfully.’ Letting himself have a final moment of reverent quiet, he removed the helmet slowly and then shut down the machine. When he turned around, both men looked at him in confusion. This had not been what they had expected. ‘Hank, I want you to guard the main doors to the mansion,’ he said. ‘Alex and Sean must go to the eastern border of the grounds - I’m telling them telepathically right now. Erik, my study.’ With those words, he started wheeling himself forward, and Hank and Erik had to start walking, or else be pushed off the platform. 

‘But what’s happened?’ Hank asked as the lift carried them up into the main mansion. Charles did not answer, and when the door opened, he pressed: ‘What did you see?’ 

‘Just go,’ Charles said sharply. Hank swallowed and with a nod, left.  
 ‘They’re coming?’ Erik asked as he fell into stride beside Charles. 

‘I’ll explain once we get to the study,’ he said. ‘But not here.’ 

‘We should collect the children, and get you to the bunker,’ Erik pressed. Charles simply shook his head. 

‘It’s not come to that.’ He was wheeling himself as fast as he could without losing control of the wheelchair. His wrists were starting to feel the strain, but he would not slow down; they did not have much time, and he needed to explain this to Erik in private. Finally they reached the study. As Erik locked the door behind them with a flick of his hand, he said: 

‘Will you explain to me what’s going on now?’ He was unable to keep annoyance out of his voice. 

‘They’re coming,’ Charles explained. Erik came closer, listening. ‘Most of the Brotherhood are about ten miles away. The core group - Shaw’s mutants and Angel, and presumably Raven - are considerably closer, almost on the grounds.’ 

‘Only five of them?’ Erik said, mystified. ‘They must know there is no way to take the mansion with five men...’ 

‘They’re not here to take the mansion, or attack it,’ Charles said. ‘What I saw I in their minds was, “we’re here for the traitor.” The rest of the Brotherhood thinks they’re here because of Raven. I couldn’t read Raven’s thoughts, and Frost had shielded hers, but it must be you they’re after.’ 

‘Me? A traitor?’ Charles reached up and took his hand. It closed around his possessively. Erik closed his eyes in momentary desperation.

‘We should get you to safety,’ he said quietly. 

‘I’m not the one in danger,’ Charles answered. ‘And I’m not letting you out of my sight.’ 

‘They would not take me.’ 

‘I’m not taking any chances.’ He leaned down and kissed him, as if to seal the promise. When they pulled apart, they looked at each other wordlessly. The smell of brimstone interrupted them. 

Erik drew back quickly, and they both stared at the five mutants who had appeared in a cloud of red smoke. Azazel, his scarred face twisted into a contemptuous smile; Riptide, swallowing a giggle; Angel, watching them with scorn; Emma Frost, her icy demeanour turned up into a sneer, and Magneto, observing them with cold grey eyes. 

Erik took a step forward, putting his body as a shield between the Brotherhood and Charles, but without blocking his view completely. Charles still saw their deriding looks. 

‘Nice one, Mystique,’ Riptide said at last. ‘Good disguise, no? Meant to confuse us?’ Azazel’s smile turned into full-blown laughter, and it spread to the others. On either side of their unamused leader, they laughed until they were bent double and holding back tears. Charles saw Erik’s lips twitch into a crooked smile. 

‘Yes, very funny,’ he said. ‘From where you are standing, perhaps.’ Magneto stepped forward. 

‘We’re here for the traitor,’ he said. Charles looked from one to the other, the well-dressed teacher and the armoured leader. They had the same face and the same voice, and still they seemed - were - a world apart. Had one once been the other? It seemed unimaginable. 

Magneto reached into his cloak and pulled out a knife. 

‘You’re coming with us,’ he said gravely, pointing the dagger at his double. Erik continued smiling and glanced over to the others, who had suddenly stopped laughing, enthralled at the two identical yet so different men, standing only feet apart. 

‘Since when did Magneto start carrying weapons?’ he asked. ‘Back in my day, he never did such a thing.’ Suddenly the smile was gone, and with it, the conversational tone. ‘I wonder why that is.’ Erik raised his hands, and Magneto gave a yelp as the helmet flew from his head and the knife moved in his hand. He let go of it and started backing away, but it floated up to the level of his throat, point against his Adam’s apple. Suddenly transfixed, Magneto stared at the floating knife, terror turning his breath ragged. 

‘But...’ Angel breathed, staring at the display. 

‘When did you last see this man use his powers?’ Erik asked, his voice grim. ‘What has Miss Frost _made_ you see?’ The tip of the knife grazed Magneto’s skin; the Brotherhood held its breath. The knife stopped on its path, hovering, ready to thrust into the flesh. Two identical pair of eyes met over the steel. 

‘Take off my face,’ Erik demanded. ‘If not, not even Charles will be able to stop me.’ 

Magneto exhaled, and with the breath he shrunk. His sagging shoulders changed shape and the body melted. The cape slipped, and for a moment hung suspended like a drapery carved by a modest sculptor, before it pooled at her feet. Raven watched them with yellow eyes; her band of soldiers, her estranged brother, her traitor lover. 

‘Why don’t you do it?’ she snarled. ‘Prove yourself in at least some way.’ For a moment, Erik hesitated. Then his outstretched hand closed, and the knife collapsed onto itself. When it fell onto the floor, it was a crumpled mass of metal, a weapon only to him. 

‘Thank you, Erik,’ Charles said quietly. He did not heed him. 

The Brotherhood had finally shaken off their confusion, but could still not seem to act. 

‘We’ve been tricked!’ exclaimed Azazel, looking from Raven to Erik. ‘You...’ He looked at the woman he had thought to be his leader with a mixture of anger and respect. ‘You said you were leaving.’ 

‘In a way I did,’ she answered and shot Erik a look. ‘But I was never a traitor.’ Now she addressed him. ‘They trust you now, Magneto. I’ve been cleaning your mess up ever since you ran. You have a honourable name to come back to.’ Erik watched her, jaws closed so tight that his teeth ground together. 

‘I do not want that name,’ he said finally. 

‘Magneto - a traitor?’ Angel whispered and then looked to Raven, crestfallen. ‘Mystique...’ There was something begging in her tone. Raven looked away. 

‘How long until the war, gentlemen?’ she asked, hands on her hips and feet apart. Charles tried to look away from her, appalled at the way she exposed herself, but she seemed to feel no shame. Instead, she pushed out her chest proudly; she had been caged for too long. ‘There are sides to be taken. Wouldn’t it be better if you chose the right one?’ 

Charles wheeled closer. 

‘Mystique, we can prevent it from happening altogether,’ he said and looked her in the eye. ‘We’ve done it before.’ She smiled, as if he were a stranger who spoke a foreign language. ‘I’m very glad to see you again,’ he tried. The smile disappeared, but her look of disdain did not. ‘Won’t you speak to me? You’re my sister, after all.’ 

She shook her head. 

‘Your mutant pet, maybe,’ she answered. ‘Never your sister.’ 

‘That is a very cruel thing to say,’ Charles said reproachfully, not trying to hide the hurt. She shot him a look. 

‘Do you think I’d care?’ she asked. Instead of waiting for an answer, she took the cape off the floor and pushed it into Erik’s hands. 

‘Keep it,’ he answered and pushed it back. She almost threw it back at him, but he made no attempt to catch it. It fell into a bloodlike pool of fabric at his feet. 

‘It’s your cape - it’s your bloody helmet!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why won’t _you_ wear it? Why won’t you do the work you cut out for yourself?’ 

‘Then lead the Brotherhood in your own way,’ he answered. ‘They are not mine anymore.’ 

‘Magneto, why do you run from your duties?’ Emma Frost said suddenly and stepped forward. ‘You while away your time here without purpose. Why go against your nature so completely?’ Rage swelled within him, and Charles thought it made him grow. 

‘Why must I be slave to my nature?’ Erik asked and struck the air with his fist. ‘Who are you to tell me what it is? All I wanted was a semblance of a real life - the kind of life I could never have, the kind of life I was told I did not deserve. Why must you, my own kind, tell me the same? Have I not deserved this?’ He gestured around him, and then stepped up, not to Emma but to Mystique. He looked her in the eye, and held her defiant gaze. ‘This is what all life should be about. Home, Mystique. You try to push it away from you and hide behind a taken name, a childish sobriquet, but it is bigger than you, and that is why you despise it so, because it is not possible simply to refuse it,’ She looked back at him, torn between anger at his betrayal and at the truth. With a sigh, Erik shook his head, some of his anger receding. ‘I pity you, Raven. You willfully throw away what I had robbed from me. You cannot see its value, because you made the choice yourself.’ Mystique’s lip curled in malice. 

‘Don’t use my slave name, Magneto.’ 

‘Am I Magneto?’ he challenged her. ‘Is it a name? Or just a title, for the leader of this ineffectual Brotherhood of ours?’ She picked up the helmet where it had fallen. 

‘The only thing making us ineffectual was you,’ she said. ‘I loved you, enough to do this for you. But you’re weak. You claimed you were different, but you’re just like any other man. I want to be in my own skin, and you forced me into yours. You’re a coward, Magneto. You never dared to cross _him_ -’ she pointed towards Charles ‘-and now you’d rather play happy families than to fight the injustice which you used to care so much about.’ 

‘I still care,’ Erik answered and looked away from her. For a brief moment, his eyes met Charles’. ‘If you think that what I’m doing here does not work towards the same goal, you are wrong.’ 

‘Are you ready to pay that prize for your “real” life?’ Emma asked. ‘The freedom of mutants?’ 

‘And what kind of life is this?’ Mystique added. ‘Teaching a bunch of kids? Sharing the bed of my crippled brother the dreamer?’ 

The words had barely left her lips when Erik lunged forward, and for a terrified moment, Charles thought he had lost control completely. But his hands did not close around her throat, but only around her shoulders, and the way he shook her would not harm her. 

‘At least he has a dream!’ he shouted. ‘What do we have? Only hatred, Mystique - how can we build on that?’ He held her still, staring down at her. She looked back, lips pressed tight and yellow eyes blazing with indignant anger. ‘Well?’ he challenged. ‘Tell me, Mystique!’ 

‘You need to come with us,’ she said gravely, intoning every word, and Frost added: 

‘We’ll let slip that Xavier attacked us...’ 

‘Attacked you?’ Erik repeated incredulously. 

‘I was not the cause of that psychic wave,’ Charles explained. 

‘Then what was?’ she challenged him. 

‘None of your business,’ Erik snapped, and despite the tense situation, Charles felt his heart swell at Erik’s protectiveness of the students. Frost waved her hand. 

‘We don’t have time for this,’ she said. ‘The Brotherhood needs its leader.’ 

Erik watched them all in disgust. 

‘ _She’s_ the leader,’ he said and he came to stand at Charles’ side. Looking at Raven, he intoned: ‘I have found my place. It is time you found yours. Now leave. All of you.’ What had once been a knife lifted from the floor and split into several smaller blades, pointing to each of them. Charles felt Mystique’s sudden sharp panic, the first true emotion except anger he had felt from her, and she called out: 

‘Magneto, just listen to me - you don’t understand! The government is experimenting on mutants.’

Erik froze, and his face changed in its moment of realisation. Slowly, he turned to face her. Charles, sensing how the tables were turning, wheeled after him and tried to grab his arm, but his hand slipped off. 

‘Since when?’ Erik asked, intent only on Mystique. 

‘Since the beginning of the year, it seems,’ Emma explained. ‘But it might have been going on longer. We don’t know much, but we know that it’s happening.’ 

‘They’re taking mutants off the streets,’ Mystique continued. ‘Callisto tipped us - that’s how we know. The Morlocks are missing four of their group, and a few had stories about being approached by government men and being offered food and a place to sleep.’ Erik listened, staring down at the floor. His face was unreadable. When he spoke, it was to himself. 

‘They take the weak ones first,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing breaks down resistance as well as hunger. That hasn’t changed.’ Then he fell silent, still staring at his shoes. Charles wanted to come closer and touch him, but suddenly, the situation felt breakable. The Brotherhood waited, equally hesitant to break his pensive concentration. At last, he rose from it, and he asked: ‘How do you know they are experiments?’ 

‘We managed to rescue some correspondence from an office, just before it got shredded,’ Mystique explained. ‘It was a guarantee for funds for various forms of medical equipment, and well-wishes for their attempts to “turn the mutant problem to our advantage”. It’s not just that,’ she continued. ‘The funds were from high up. Very high up.’ 

‘The White House?’ Erik asked. 

‘It must have found its way onto the President’s desk at some point,’ Emma said. ‘He must know. But how many questions he asked... that is a different matter.’ Erik considered this. 

‘They are playing a long game,’ he observed. ‘We are too dangerous simply to round up and kill. They need to find our weaknesses first, and discover a way to use our strengths for their means, perhaps even make us kill our own...’ 

‘Please,’ Charles said and drew a little closer. The others looked at him, as if they had forgotten whose study they were in. ‘This is terrible news, for me as well as you,’ he said openheartedly. ‘Let’s join forces - we should not fight each other now, if there is such a threat against us.’ Emma and Mystique simply stared at him. Erik’s gaze was more sympathetic, but there was scepticism there. 

‘What would you propose to do?’ he asked. 

‘Find the information - make it public,’ Charles said. ‘The general public would not stand for such cruelty.’ 

‘But it’s just against mutants,’ Mystique said. ‘The public wouldn’t care.’ 

‘People are better than that,’ Charles asserted, but Erik shook his head. 

‘They are not, Charles. I have heard you say it yourself. If they do not care about the Negroes lynched in the South, why would they care if another species was made into lab rats by the state?’ 

‘You think a direct attack is a better idea?’ Charles asked. It was not until now that he realised that they spoke as if they were back in their old roles. Were they? Was Erik the leader of the Brotherhood again, or still a teacher under his authority? 

If Erik was contemplating these things, he was not letting it show. 

‘If so, would you support it?’ Charles pressed his lips together in disapproval. ‘You were fast on taking action against Shaw,’ he reminded him. ‘Your pacifism is not without its exceptions. If you could take on him, why not this?’ 

‘Attacking a government project is completely different,’ Charles said slowly, not certain either way. ‘It would be easy for them to use it against mutants...’ 

‘So you would leave those poor souls to their torment,’ Erik concluded. 

‘Of course not!’ At that, he smiled; his previous statement had only been an attempt to prodding him into action. Charles sighed, but he knew despite his reluctance that Erik was right. ‘I’ll help.’ Erik nodded. ‘But what you’ve told us isn’t much to go on. Do you know where they’re based? Where the money has been paid? Anything?’ 

‘We don’t have a location, but we have a name,’ Emma said. ‘A military scientist - he has connections to the CIA.’ Charles felt a hand grab his heart, and he saw Erik’s eyes darken. 

‘What is the name?’ he asked. 

‘Stryker.’ 

Silence fell. Charles felt the thoughts moving through Erik’s mind, and saw the way he started changing. The Brotherhood watched in bewilderment as he slowly turned to face the professor. He looked down at him, and those eyes seemed to cut through him. There was still love, but there was also sour disappointment, and anger - above all, anger. 

‘He has the child,’ he whispered. 

‘Yes,’ Charles said, horror making him shake. 

‘You gave him the child.’ 

‘Erik, I couldn’t have known...’ Erik’s fist rose and he brought it down onto the armrest of his chair. Charles shied away at the impact, but he could not flee from the fury in his eyes. 

‘You should have known!’ he screamed. ‘All those times you were in the same room as him, that time you influenced his mind so that he let her stay at the school... You should have noticed. You should have gone with her after you expelled her to make sure that she would be safe, but instead, you were too cowardly to do even that. You should have known.’ 

‘Erik...’ Charles said, his voice trembling. The sight of his back turned at him and his shoulders squared in defiance was more painful than any words. Erik turned his head minutely, looking to the others. The lock of the door snapped open. 

‘Leave us.’ Obedient to their renegade leader, they left. Charles wanted to call out and stop them, but it was too late. The door shut, and all that was left to witness of their presence was the helmet and the cloak, lying on the floor. The two men stayed frozen for a long, drawn-out moment, while Charles fought with himself. He was still quaking after Erik’s blow, even if it had not touched him. But worse was what he had said, and what he was thinking. What could he do? Reason with him? Give him right? Show him tenderness? Try to kiss him? 

‘Please, Erik,’ he managed to say. The man in front of him ( _Erik? Magneto?_ ) did not move. ‘At least turn around and speak to me.’ His words or his pitiful tone must have stirred something in him, because with reluctance, he turned around. He did not look at him. ‘Please...’ 

‘Please what?’ he asked. ‘What do you want to hear, Charles?’ His voice had a bitter edge which was new, but there was something vulnerable in it too. 

‘You feel that this is a betrayal,’ Charles stated. 

‘It is,’ Erik answered flatly. 

‘No!’ he protested. ‘I would _never_... not consciously...’ 

‘Does that make it less of a betrayal?’ Erik asked him. 

‘Please, let me help with this,’ Charles begged. Perhaps addressing the situation rationally rather than emotionally would work. ‘Beast, Havoc and Banshee are all good fighters, and I could collect intelligence. We could work together...’ 

‘Until you find another threat against your school, at which you would betray us again.’ 

‘“Us”?’ Charles repeated. ‘Is that mutants? Or the Brotherhood? You’ve never called them “us” before.’ Erik did not answer, but stayed resolutely silent. Giving into frustration, Charles exclaimed: ‘For goodness’ sake, Erik, you’re blaming me for something which I could not have known about! Don’t you see how ridiculous that is? God, won’t you at least say something?’ Erik looked away, his turmoil tangible. An incredulous laugh escaped Charles. ‘Is this it, then?’ he asked. ‘One mistaken attempt at protecting my own, where I did not have a choice, and everything changes?’ 

‘You had a choice,’ Erik snapped. ‘You could have kept her here, kept her powers under control...’ 

‘But at what cost?’ 

‘One lower than what is being claimed now,’ Erik roared. ‘And at the hands of the child’s father...’ In a wave of nauseous disbelief, he pressed his eyes shut, waiting for the reminder to pass. 

‘You were in favour of expulsion,’ Charles reminded him. ‘You said that she had forfeited her right here...’ 

‘And had I known that her father organised experiments on mutants, I wouldn’t be,’ Erik answered harshly. 

‘And neither of us knew!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘You supported my decision!’ 

‘I was wrong to,’ Erik sighed. ‘By God, I was wrong to.’ 

Charles considered the web of events - Stryker, Jason, Susanna, Raven... and in the middle of it all, the two of them. That love had been what had brought him back. It would bring him back again. 

‘You must remember,’ Charles said softly. ‘The things that really matter...’ 

‘Yes, I remember,’ Erik said, but his tone was sharp and unforgiving. ‘I remember the pain and the disgrace and the fear of what Schmidt put me through. Now other mutants are suffering in the same way, because you made it possible...’

‘I meant _us_ ,’ Charles exclaimed. ‘I love you, Erik! Does that count for so little? It doesn’t undo any of this, but we have achieved so much together...’ Erik raised his hand, silencing him. 

‘Spare me,’ he said.

‘But...’ 

‘Don’t you understand, Charles?’ he snapped. ‘This is not about us - this is about more than that.’ Charles shook his head, defiance and denial burning at the back of his throat.

‘Erik, it is always about us,’ he answered. ‘You said it yourself. Apart, we are nothing.’ Erik looked at him, as if the anger no longer obstructed his sight, and for a hopeful moment, Charles felt him considering it. 

‘Can I live with a man who sacrifices his own kind so readily?’

Charles tensed. 

‘I saw no other way.’ 

‘There must have been one,’ Erik said. ‘It was your responsibility to keep her safe, and you let her down.’ 

‘She killed another student...’ 

‘There are certain things no-one deserves. How long until Stryker realises that her power is simply restrained, not gone?’ Erik asked. ‘How long until he makes her his test-subject?’ 

They looked at each other. Charles’ temper was the one to give first, and when he spoke, his voice verged on breaking. 

‘So all we had...’ he asked. ‘Does all this make that go away?’ Erik looked at him, as if what he said shocked him, and then hung his head. 

‘Charles,’ he whispered. No-one had ever pronounced his name with such feeling before. He took a step forward, hesitated, then took another and knelt in front of him. As if it was part of some archaic ritual, he took each of his hands in his. When he looked up at him, his eyes were filled with tears, but his voice did not break when he spoke. ‘I love you. That will not go away. It will never go away. It is cut into my heart. It will not fade, as none of my scars will fade. I love you. But it is not enough.’ 

‘No,’ Charles whispered as the first tear fell down his cheek. ‘Please, Erik, don’t... Not this.’ Erik closed his eyes, and tears ran down his face. 

‘You know that it must be like this,’ he said. ‘You’ve implied it so many times...’ 

‘Stop it!’ he exclaimed and pressed his hands so hard it must hurt. ‘Don’t say such things!’ Erik shook his head slowly. 

‘You asked me after you learned about the Brotherhood if it was worth it all. I said it was.’ He looked up at him. ‘I was wrong. The cost is too great. Freedom for all must go before my own happiness. My own life.’ He prized open his fingers and drew away his hands, his eyes not leaving his. ‘I did not live before I met you. But I can only afford to survive.’ 

A sob escaped Charles, torn between drawing away and drawing closer, pushing him away or holding him there. Then he remembered the letter Erik wrote to himself before they retrieved the memories of Ruth. It was still locked in a drawer. He could make Erik forget about the Brotherhood’s news and about Jason. With a mere thought, he make the five intruders completely harmless, or he could simply kill them. He could persuade Erik that the Brotherhood no longer existed - if he disbanded it for him, it would not. If Erik realised that he had lost time, Charles could simply give him the letter, written in his own hand, claiming that he had given his consent. Everything could stay like it was - they could be happy together. Suddenly that violation of Erik’s trust seemed minor in comparison to the things he would save by his actions. His hand was halfway to his temple. Erik’s arm shot out and he grabbed his wrist. 

‘Don’t you dare,’ he growled as his fingers closed around it. Charles stared at him defiantly, daring him. Erik could disrupt his brain-functions with the right electromagnetic charge - Charles could lay his mind waste. As their eyes met, the power within each of them seemed to sing. 

The grip around his wrist fell. Instead Erik pushed forward and kissed him. Charles kissed back without restraint. Then the aggression seemed to melt away, as Erik broke the kiss and leaned their faces together. Charles put his hand on his neck, hoping to hold him there. Was this a reconciliation, or a farewell? 

Erik’s hand came up and took his, and even if he pressed it, he lead it away from his neck. He pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss and, for a moment, he seemed to lay his mind open to him. Charles saw deeper than he had even the first time they met, into his very soul. It was beyond any verbal assurance of love.

Erik rose and little by little, his fingers slipped off Charles’ hand. He paused only to take the helmet and the cloak. At the door, he looked back. His eyes shone with tears, but he did not speak. He did not attempt a parting phrase, or even a nod or a wave. He stood frozen, watching him. Finally, he ripped his gaze away and turned. Charles sat in silence as his footsteps disappeared down the corridor. 

_No!_ The call came form inside him, one part of him speaking to another. _Do not accept this. Do not let this happen - you must not lose this._

‘Erik!’ Charles wheeled to the door and down the deserted corridor. ‘Erik!’ He reached the entrance hall, and the room picked up his cry, bounding it off the walls until a hundred voices whispered, _Erik, Erik, Erik._ He looked around, trying to find some trail of him. 

There were noises from outside, and a roar: 

‘For God’s sake, Erik, don’t!’ 

‘Erik!’ he called and flung open the doors. 

There, halfway down the stairs stood Hank, watching the evaporating red smoke. He turned around and looked up at Charles. 

‘I tried to stop them,’ he said, voice shaking. ‘I’m sorry, Professor.’ 

Charles raised his fingers to his temple and concentrated, pushing through the grounds and the town, straining his mind. He tried to thrust beyond his reach, but on his own he could not reach further. 

‘I can’t feel him,’ he whispered. ‘He must be there...’ Hank started mounting the stairs, but Charles did not heed him. His vision blurred with tears. He reached out again, thinking desperately that Erik might suddenly appear - he might change his mind... 

‘Professor, listen to me...’ Charles’ fingers were still pressed against his temple, and frantically he cast his mind about, but he could not feel him or anyone else from the Brotherhood. ‘Professor, they’re gone.’ 

His hand fell. On the steps of the mansion, Charles closed his eyes, and his heart broke.


End file.
